


Strings

by Kenjiandco



Series: Knots [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard AU, Bodyguard!Marco, Heir-to-a-fortune!Jean, M/M, Mystery, Secret agent!Levi, and Irvin just generally being himself, general background Levihan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 68,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Marco Bodt dreamed of joining the United States Secret Service...but after a first assignment gone horribly wrong and one failed psych evaluation too many, even the chance to be a simple bodyguard for the heir of the Kirstein Chemical corporation seems too good to be true. </p><p>But the leaders of Survey Intelligence Group have an agenda that goes beyond just keeping Jean Kirstein safe.</p><p>And Marco's never been any good at leaving his emotions behind...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wings

**Chapter 1: Wings**

 

TRANSCRIPT OF: Recorded conversation taking place on [DATE REDACTED] at Survey Group Intelligence offices, Chicago IL

SUBJECT MATTER PERTAINING TO: Trost Station incident (13 December 2013) and the ongoing investigation into the death of [REDACTED]

 

RECORDING BEGINS

 

[Door opens; Door closes loudly.]

SPEAKER A: Hey.  We’ve got your fly on the wall.

SPEAKER B: My...what?

A: You know, your plant.  For the Kirstein thing.  

B: You mean our _personal protective agent?_

A: If you say so.  We got Garrison to let us dig through their personnel files, looks like he’s the one.

[Conversation ceases for 75 seconds: papers can be heard shuffling.]

B: Please tell me this birthdate is a typo.   _1987?_

A: So?

B: So you don’t think he might object to us guarding his kid with _another_ [expletive] _kid?_

A: He’s the obvious choice.  Right training, right experience, he knows the university campus inside and out and he looks about as threatening as a wet rabbit.

B: Well, that’s a good line of bullshit.  Any of it real?

A: [Expletive] no.  

[Conversation ceases for 28 seconds.]

B: I’m...going to need a little more detail than that.

A: What do you want me to say?  If it was up to me I wouldn’t let this kid back in the field with a [expletive] Nerf gun.  He’s soft.  Cares too much.  But you want someone with intuition he’s it.

B: Okay, Levi.  I trust you.

A: No you don’t.

B: Well, I trust your judgement.  [Sound of small object being thrown] _Stop that._ And...try to keep our subject alive, okay?  I don’t need Jean Kirstein’s death on my hands.

 

 

 

* * *

Marco Bodt stood at more-or-less attention outside the office door and resisted the urge to fidget.

First time out of his desk in...how long, a year and three months? Four?  Long enough that he felt off balance wearing a shoulder holster again...the weight of the new black Glock (new field license, new firearm) tugged on his shoulders in ways he’d forgotten, making the right side of his body feel too light.

It felt surreal, having a protection job again, albeit one with a catch...he sighed, rubbing a hand over his side.  No good dwelling on it, he’d just have to do the best he could.  It was a field posting, that was what mattered...but... _Why the hell would they pick_ me?

“Oi, Marco!”

Marco looked up, and smiled.  Working for Survey wasn’t all bad, sometimes…

“Hey, Zoe.”

Hanji Zoe, surveillance tech extraordinaire, barreled down the hallway and latched onto his shoulders with her usual level of regard for personal space.  “Tell me it’s not true!  They aren’t _actually_ taking my best researcher away!”

“Yeah, sorry, I meant to tell you...I only found out about it last night.  Commander Smith offered me a personal protection posting.”

“Personal--” Zoe’s eyes went wide behind her thick glasses.  “Aw come on Marco, you’re way too smart for some stupid _bodyguard_ job.”

“It’s what I’m trained for!” Marco protested.  “I was just making it up as I went, doing background checks for you.”

“Yeah, well making it up as you went got me some of the best results I’ve ever had come out of wiretaps,” she retorted, fiddling with the headphones around her neck.  “I can’t believe Irvin would want _you_ of all people trailing some stupid socialite around.”

“Well...I guess...it’s not _just_ a bodyguard position.  You know Kirstein Chemical--”

“Marco?”  The office door behind them opened, and Marco jumped.  Hannes, head of Survey Intelligence Group’s sister organization Garrison (and Marco’s old boss) nodded to both of them, hand still on the doorknob.  “Come on in, they’re ready for you.”

“Well, congratulations,” Zoe said with a shrug.  “If this is what you want.  Hey Hannes, have you seen my shithead husband around here somewhere…”

Marco took a deep breath and slipped past them.   _You’ve got this,_ he counseled himself. _This is what you’re meant to be doing, no matter how much Zoe liked your research._ He stepped through the second door into the inner conference room, in time to hear “...this is the agent we’ve assigned to your case, one of our best.  Marco Bodt, this is Alek Kirstein, CEO of Kirstein Chemical.”

“Sir,” Marco said formally, standing to attention and trying to ignore the unfamiliar pull of the holster.  The heavyset man gave him a long, disbelieving stare, and then turned to the commander of Survey, seated across the conference table from him.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, in the rasping voice of a heavy smoker.  “He looks like a goddamned sixteen-year-old.”  Irvin Smith smiled faintly, and raised his eyebrows at Marco.  

“That’s part of my job, sir,” he said with carefully regulated politeness.  “This is a kidnapping threat, correct?” Marco kept his eyes on the businessman rather than the table’s third occupant, though he could feel eyes burning into the side of his head.  “In this situation you don’t want obvious protection.  You need agents like me, who can blend in on a university campus.”

Kirstein leaned forward, bracing both hands on the table.  “Are you telling me you _want_ my son to look unprotected?”

 _Intimidation tactic,_ Marco thought.   _Good luck, I’ve seen so very many things scarier than you._ Aloud, he said “Visible protection is for non-specific threats, random violence, press, that kind of thing.  But for a direct threat?  You set up obvious protection and all it does is ensure they’ll bring more firepower.  It just starts an arms race.”

“So you’re assuming that these bastards are watching me?” Marco blinked, and finally turned to the person to his right.

At first glance, Jean Kirstein looked very much like a slimmer, lighter haired version of his father, though his hair was already starting to go dark around his ears.  Look closer and the differences became apparent.  Alek Kirstein was a man used to getting his own way, that was immediately obvious.  Confidence was key, hesitation and displays of emotion were weakness.  His son, on the other hand...he certainly radiated the disaffected boredom you’d expect of an above-it-all heir to a huge fortune, but...Marco watched Jean’s face, just long enough to see his amber eyes flicker.  

“You didn’t tell him,” he said, looking back to Alek and the commander.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Jean’s eyebrows jump.  “You thought he’d panic if you showed him the photos?”

“ _Photos?”_ Jean rounded on his father.  “Why the _hell_ wouldn’t you tell me some fucker’s got--”

“Jean, please.  Do not make a spectacle of yourself.” The kid fell silent, eyebrows pinching together with frustration.  “We are working to ensure your protection.”   _CEO-speak if I ever heard it,_ Marco thought.

“I think he deserves to know.”  He addressed the question to the commander, just for the slight insult to the other man.  Dangerously petty, but after barely ten minutes in the room with him Marco could barely stand Alek Kirstein.  “I’d like to discuss the threats with Mr. Kirstein in any case.  I can protect Jean better if he knows what to expect if an incident occurres.”

Irvin Smith raised his eyebrows again; Marco’s insult clearly hadn’t been lost on him.  “He’s not wrong,” he said softly.  “The threats you received--”

“--are a discussion my son does not need to be present for,” Alek said, with finality.  “Jean, wait outside.”  

Jean didn’t try to protest; he stalked out of the room, face white with anger.  Marco turned his head and managed to flash him a smile, out of his father’s line of site.  He felt Jean’s eyes on him once again, before the door slammed shut behind him.  

Irvin flipped open the file in front of him and spread six 8x10 photos out across the table.  They were black and white, grainy and low resolution, but they were all very clearly Jean Kirstein.  

“We received them two weeks ago,” Alek said grimly.  Marco pasted his neutral “professional” smile back on his face.  “I assumed they were a prank, but my...former wife insisted I have them analyzed.  Which is how we learned--”

“These weren’t taken with a normal camera,” Marco finished for him.  “I’ve seen photos like this before.  These were taken with a scope.  A gun mounted camera.”

“And then there’s this one.” Irvin tossed a seventh photo on top of the others.  It was zoomed in further than the others, and showed Jean standing behind a large picture window: the window in the living room of his apartment near the University of Chicago.  He was looking up, almost straight into the camera.  Marco whistled tunelessly.  How far away would they have to be, to take a picture from that angle without being seen.

And then, of course, there were the words, scrawled in red ink across Jean’s grainy face.

**RB  -  BH  -  AL**

**TELL THE WORLD ON YOUR OWN TERMS**

**OR**

**TELL THE WORLD AS YOUR SON’S RANSOM**

 

 

 

* * *

Marco left the Survey Intelligence building by a side door, bending his head against the wind and wishing he’d brought a jacket.  It was still early October, but the wind blasting off the lake already carried enough chill to bite straight through his blazer.  

The meeting left a bad taste in his mouth.   _Keep your son safe by not telling him the first thing about the danger he could be in,_ he thought bitterly.   _Or is it because the more you tell him the more information he could leak to the press to get back at his father?_

Kirstein Chemical had spent most of the last decade taking a beating in the press for various questionable business practices, culminating in a huge lot of Kirstein-produced reagents finding their way to a camp producing improvised explosive devices somewhere in Iran.  Marco knew Irvin Smith had been dying for a chance to get someone close to the company; he suspected the chemical sale was an inside job.  Which was where Marco came in…

“Hey.”

Marco looked up at the shadow leaning against the wall ahead of him, and sighed.  Probably should have seen this coming.

“Hello, sir.”

Captain Levi, second in command of Survey, rolled his eyes.  “How many times, Marco.”  He took another drag on the cigarette between his fingers and flicked the end into a puddle.  “I know you Garrison _enfoirés_ like your military ranking, but you’re at Survey now.  The Commander is Sir.  Everyone else is ‘hey fuckhead where’s the thing you promised me last week.’”

He peeled away from the wall and fell into step beside Marco, pulling the white scarf around his neck up to his chin, and Marco swallowed a laugh.  No-one knew much about the tiny captain’s previous life, before he’d come to Survey, but he’d grown up somewhere in southern France, on the Mediterranean coast, and tended to regard Chicago winters as a personal insult.

“So, you understand what you’re doing here?  What you’re _actually_ doing.”

Marco sighed.  He’d been trying not to think about it.  “I understand.”

“You’ll be wearing a wire most of the time,” Levi said.  “I doubt we’ll have someone listening 24/7, but it’ll all be recorded.  Any chance the company comes up, professionalism goes straight the window.  Pump ‘im, we want all the information you can get.”

“So you don’t think his life is actually in danger?”

There was the slightest moment of hesitation before Levi replied.  “Irvin doesn’t think so.  The timing’s off for an actual strike.”

Marco nodded.  “This is a power play, isn’t it?  They don’t really care what Kirstein _does_ about those threats, they just want him scared.   They want him to think they know something about...something.  If they’ve got some dirty secret, they can either force him to reveal it himself, or kill the kid and then scream it from the rooftops, and they want him to _know_ it.  Do you know what RB-BH-AL means?”

“Not a fucking clue.   _C’est naze…”_

“Alek Kirstein sure does though.”

Levi stopped dead in the street and rolled his eyes heavenward.  “ _Qu'elle merde_ _..._ I owe Irvin fifty bucks.”

“I figured he was testing me,” Marco said with a shrug.  “Kirstein’s not as good a liar as he thinks he is.  Oh, and Captain?”  Levi looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

_“Vous savez que je suis né en Belgique, non?”_

Levi gave him a long, blank stare, and then continued talking as though nothing had happened.  “Just remember, if this thing _does_ go to shit, you’re a Survey agent, not a bodyguard.  The kid’s life is _not_ your first priority.”

Marco looked away.   _And there’s the catch._ He just nodded, and Levi’s eyes narrowed briefly.

“Arrogant little pissant, isn’t he?” he said eventually.

“Huh?” Marco blinked.  “No, not really.  He’s just scared.  Isn’t it obvious?”

Levi’s eyebrows shot up under his bangs.  “I’ll grant he’s pissed as all hell...not without reason, either.”

Marco shook his head.  He might have doubts about carrying a gun again, but not about this.  “No, he’s good at making it look like anger, but Jean’s terrified.  And I don’t think he’s really scared of being kidnapped, per se...put it like this.  Whoever made those threats against him, they’re banking on his father valuing the corporation’s integrity over his son’s life.  Jean’s scared they might be _right.”_

Levi stared at him, and scraped a hand through his glossy hair.  “Heh.” The corner of his mouth twitched up, just for a second.  “I love it when I’m right.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

**STAY TUNED!**

 

 

 

* * *

You don’t want to miss the next exciting installment of this serial action adventure!   _What_ will be revealed, as heir and agent meet?   _Who’s_ secrets will be uncovered?   _What_ will it take, to bring down the **Walls?**

 


	2. Walls

**Chapter 2: Walls**

“Anything happening?”  Levi stuck his head through the basement door and yelled.

“ _Get your ass down here and find out yourself!”_

He’d been afraid of that.  Levi suppressed a shudder and headed down the dusty steps, tugging his scarf up over his nose.  The basement of the Survey building made his skin crawl, but there was fuck all he could do about it. The basement was exclusively Zoe’s territory; crossing the queen in her own domain was _asking_ for trouble.  Or more specifically, asking for really disturbing hentai popups lurking all over your hard drive (and in one memorable instance, embedded in an email attachment that nearly got Irvin arrested.)

Zoe sat in front of her monitor bank, with all the posture of a pretzel, bathed in the bluish glow.  She waved over her shoulder as Levi came down the stairs, kicking aside a prehistoric french fry carton.  

Levi leaned over the back of her ancient orange office chair (she’d dragged it out of a dumpster somewhere, claiming it called to her on a spiritual level) and pried up one of her headphones.

“I _said,_ anything happening, four-eyes?”

“Nah. Monotony.” Zoe knocked her headphones back to dangle around her neck and stretched like a cat, cracking her knuckles just to make him cringe.  “They got jumped by a passel of activist whack-jobs last week, but other than that…” she tossed an empty Mountain Dew bottle over her shoulder (Levi ducked) and pulled a full one from the recesses under her desk.  

Levi narrowed his eyes at the soda bottle.  “Oi.” He curled his fingers into her bird’s nest of a ponytail and tipped her head back over the top of her chair.  “When did you last eat?”

Zoe blinked at him like he was speaking in tongues.  “Um. A time?”  Levi rolled his eyes and fished an apple out of his pocket.  

“Eat. You idiot.” He dropped the fruit unceremoniously in her lap.  “If nothing’s happening why the hell are _you_ the one listening to all his raw mic audio?  Stick it on Petra or someone--”

“Huh _uh.”_ She shook her head so hard the ends of her ponytail slapped against her cheeks.  “If you’re sending my Marco back into the field you’re not gonna have any birdie on his shoulder but _me._ ”  

Levi bowed his head, resting his arms on the back of her chair.  Zoe twisted her body around, shoving her glasses up into her hair, and watched his face for a long moment.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said eventually.  “You’ve had a cloud over your head ever since this whole fuckfest got started.”  

Levi sighed.  “I sent Marco out to play decoy with his head still wrecked...if this goes bad...Hanji, it’ll break him.”  Her head tilted, ever so slightly, at his use of her rarely-heard first name.  Sometimes Levi hated how easily she could read him.  

“He’s still blaming himself even though it was a fucking _miracle_ even one of them walked out of there...he can’t take another Krista.”  

“I don’t think you give him enough credit.  Mama duck.”  Zoe grinned and Levi muttered something filthy under his breath.  “Have some faith.  You picked him, didn’t you?”

“You’re an idiot.  Shitty-headphones.”  

She tipped her head back over the edge of her chair, its springs groaning, until she could look up into his eyes from her upside-down vantage point.  “I do okay at some things.”

“Name one.”

Zoe reached back and twined her arms around his neck.  “Pickin’ husbands?”

“Shut up.”  Levi did his best to look reluctant as he leaned down to kiss her.

 

 

* * *

“So how’s the staring at an empty hallway going?”

“Almost as fascinating as staring at you guys staring at computer screens, I’m sure,” Marco replied, shifting position against the doorjamb.

“I feel so much safer with you looking bored over there.”

“I am here to serve.”

“And steal our popcorn.”

“An’ shteal your popcorn.” Marco reached behind him to snag another handful.  “I gotta say I like guarding a pre-law students.  You guys are either in the library or asleep.”

“Or both,” Jean muttered, and kicked the kid across from him under the table.  

“Sleep is for after the bar exam, Yeager.”  

“ _Ow,_ son of a--” Eren Yeager’s head popped up off of the textbook he’d been using as a pillow, and Jean slammed his chair back to avoid the reciprocal kick.  

“Drop and give me _Lemon v. Kurtzman.”_

“ _Seriously?”_ Eren rubbed his eyes.  “Ugh...who the hell schedules a midterm for the Monday after Halloween? It’s something about Catholic schools and the Lemon Test thing…”

“Which is?”

“ _I_ don’t remember it just sounds like a porn thing to me.”

“A three prong test details the requirements for legislation concerning religion: the prongs are purpose, effect, and entanglement, specifically…” the third member of the little group (Eren’s adoptive sister, according to Jean) rattled off the entire decision, eyes shut like she was reading it off the backs of her eyelids.  

“Christ Mikasa, how do you _do_ that?”

Marco smiled to himself, tracking the argument behind him with one ear.  These long nights in the library had become a familiar pre-test ritual in the weeks he’d spent trailing Jean around the University of Chicago.  The three would stake out a study room somewhere in the library’s sprawling basement, theoretically to review class notes and quiz each other.  Invariably it would devolve into Eren and Jean arguing about some ruling or other while Mikasa prevented them from killing each other.  They’d just as invariably eat their way through a case or two of microwave kettle-corn, which went a long way towards keeping Marco sane when they pulled all-nighters.

“Hey, you got that study guide up? We should look through the essay question pool.”

“Oh, uh...yeah, hang on,” Jean paused to scroll through the endless study guide. “There we go. ‘Cases to Understand in Detail’ are... _Clark v. Arizona, Penry v. Lynaugh, US v. Nixon,_ and oh you are fucking kidding me.”

“What is it?”

“ _Occupational Health and Safety Administration v. Kirstein.”_  He was met with a chorus of disgusted groans.  Marco casually shifted position, until his right hand (and the microphone clipped inside his sleeve) were behind his back.

“Easy.” Eren flipped open his own laptop, narrating as he typed. “I do not need to prove that I understand the rulings of _OSHA v. Kirstein_ in essay form because while it may be one of the biggest pieces of bullshit ever produced by a court of law at the very least it is putting me through college.”

Jean and Mikasa laughed, but there was little humor in it.  Marco glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.  That particular lawsuit had figured pretty heavily in his research before taking this job...the suit filed against Kirstein Co. after the explosion of the Maria production plant outside Aurora.  The explosion (the cause of which was still officially undetermined) blew out a huge section of cinderblock wall in the facilities’ central building, sending giant chunks of rubble flying as far as the factory town beyond the site with enough force to crush cars and collapse roofs...and the death toll didn’t bear thinking about.

The corporation dodged both criminal charges and the ensuing health and safety lawsuit in a landslide of technicalities, successfully arguing (among other things) that the corporation couldn’t be held responsible for faults in buildings and equipment built by outside entities.  But they’d established a “good-will” trust fund for their employees, including…

...scholarships for children of the accident victims…

 _Christ,_ Marco thought, watching the barely concealed lines of anger in Eren’s face.   _They were_ there.

 _“I hope you got all that,”_ he muttered into his microphone, once conversation behind him had picked up enough to cover his voice.  The transmit light flicked off and on again twice, Zoe’s covert way of saying _loud and clear._ He relaxed his arm and tried to settle back into bodyguard mode, wrestling with the faint sting of guilt.   _It’s just potential information,_ he told himself.   _Nothing that can hurt the kids.  They aren’t involved in this.  Or at least they_ shouldn’t _be..._ he clamped down on that train of thought before it got into dangerous territory.  

“Ok, what the hell is _Clark v. Arizona_ and why is it an essay question?”  Marco grinned.  This had the potential to be...entertaining.

“That’s another insanity defense one, isn’t it?”  Mikasa tipped her chair back and stared up at the ceiling, tossing popcorn kernels in the air and catching them in her mouth without apparent effort.  “The only medical evidence admissible is evidence that pertains to the defendant’s mental state at the time of the crime?”

“Search me.” Jean flipped through his notes.  “I can’t find it anywhere.  That wasn’t a state case, was it?”  

 _Do I get involved...sure why not._ “Arizona Supreme Court,” Marco said.  “And that’s only the first half of the decision.”  He leaned back against the wall and enjoyed the confused silence.

“You know _Clark v. Arizona?”_

Marco grabbed another handful of popcorn. “I wrote my _master’s_ thesis on Clark v. Arizona.”

“You never told me you have a master’s degree!” Jean glared at him.

“Yup, criminal psychology.  ‘Course that was back when I was still shooting for the Secret Service.”  

“I uh…” Jean blinked.  “Wouldn’t have guessed.”  Marco just grinned at him over his shoulder, enjoying the perplexed look on his face.  It was...nice, seeing Jean with his shields down.  Even out of the public eye, surrounded only by his friends, it was a rare occurrence, especially with Marco nearby.  

“So what’s the second half of Clark--who’s calling me.”  Jean broke off and glared at his phone.  “Hey, Armin.  What, really? Why is that _there..._ no, don’t sweat it, I’ll come grab it.”  He ended the call and reached for his backpack.  “Sorry guys, I have to bail on you.  More scholarship bullshit…”

Mikasa frowned at him.  “Are you leaving yourself enough time to study?  Since I assume you’ll be out much of the weekend.” (Marco shuddered internally.)

Jean shrugged.  “I’ll skip 332 tomorrow morning.  It’s not like I pay attention anyway.  Unless…” he trailed off, shooting Marco an uncertain glare.

“If you think I want to sit through that lecture any more than you do you’re crazy,” Marco said cooly, straightening up and stepping out of the door.  “Where are we headed?”

“Oh, Kirstein branch office.  Apparently some of my scholarship stuff landed there, I’ve gotta sign it all and get back in the mail.”

“Are we walking?”

“Don’t we always?”  Jean headed for the door and Marco blocked him with one arm, doing his customary sweep up and down the hall before he allowed Jean out.  He didn’t have to look to see the eyeroll behind his back.

“Oh yeah.” Marco paused to call back through the door. “‘ _Proof of mental illness on the part of the defendant does not preclude the defendant’s ability to distinguish right from wrong.”_

“The hell was that?” Jean asked as they headed up the stairs.

“Second half of _Clark v. Arizona.”_

 

Summer was making one last valiant comeback before the cold set in for good, and Jean shoved his sunglasses over his eyes as they headed across the campus, hands in his pockets and eyes on the ground.  That usually meant he had something on his mind...Marco left him to his thoughts, keeping his eyes up to scan the open quad around him.

“You actually gonna let me skip tomorrow?” Jean said eventually.  Despite his listless attitude, he was an incredibly diligent student: this was the first time he’d missed a lecture that semester.

“Hehe... _no,_ Jean, I swear to you I do not care if you sleep through a lecture once in awhile.”

“You work for my _dad,”_ Jean grumbled.

“I work for _Survey._ ” Marco waited a few seconds for the quick sidelong glance, over the top of the sunglasses, that told him Jean was listening.  “Your dad just happens to be footing the bill.  And even if he _was_ paying me directly, everything that happens when you’re with me is confidential, ok?  I can’t have you trying to ditch me ‘cause you think I’ll sell you out.”  

He knew Jean was watching his face as he spoke, but his eyes flicked away as soon as Marco turned his head.  “You have to trust me, and I _know_ that doesn’t come easy to you--”

“ _How_ would you know that?” Jean snapped, cutting him off mid word.

 _Shit._ Marco resisted the urge to pull his own shades down to cover his surprise. Talking without thinking, that was _dangerous._ He’d let his _own_ shields down too far around Jean, forgetting his very lawyerish ability to pounce on the one thing you didn’t want him to notice.

 _How_ do _I know that? Because you put so much energy into pretending you don’t care? Because you cover up your fear as anger and that tells me you’ve spent too much time being scared and angry?  Because you’ve hated yourself for way too long and I know what that looks like because I own a goddamn mirror…_

“Survey got me your old psychologist’s records,” he said.  

“Confidentiality my ass,” Jean muttered, but he smiled faintly and his posture relaxed a little.

“So if you don’t mind me asking,” Marco said, as they waited for the longest stoplight in the lower 48 states to change, “how in the name of sanity did _you_ end up friends with two Maria kids?”

To his surprise, Jean actually laughed.  “Um...we all lived in the same dorm last year.  Eren ran across me flirting with Mikasa, gave me two black eyes, found out my name two weeks later, gave me two _more_ black eyes...and somewhere in there we stopped fighting about Mikasa and started fighting about our classes--” he broke off and took a deep breath,”--and both our grades improved _dramatically.”_ Marco burst out laughing, and Jean grinned. “Anyway, it’s not like he had a leg to stand on.   _He’s_ on a Kirstein Co. scholarship, I’m paying for everything myself.”

“Really? Nice.”

“I’m _not_ taking any more of my dad’s money if I can help it.”

 _Hello raw nerve..._ he’d suspected that would be the easiest way past Jean’s defenses.  Marco’s stomach twisted with the queasy guilt that had never been far away this past month.  Getting the information Irvin Smith wanted wouldn’t be a problem, he knew it wouldn’t.  Find the right string to pull, and he could unravel Jean like a knitted scarf.  And all it took was betraying the promise that Jean could trust him…

He nudged Jean ahead of him as they climbed the steps up to the little branch office, keeping himself between Jean and the street.  This late in the afternoon it was mostly deserted, except for a young man about Jean’s age staring at a computer screen, brows furrowed.  

“Hey Armin.  Whatcha got for me?”  

The young man at the desk waved a hand full of envelopes in Jean’s general direction, not bothering to look up.  

“Good to see you too,” Jean said, taking them with another eyeroll.  “Hey.  How’re classes going?”  Armin held up a finger, _one second,_ and hammered out something on his keyboard.

“ _Sorry,_ too many numbers in my head.”  He looked up and grinned at Jean.  “ _Hi_ night school is fine.  I got a couple of College Board scholarship things and what looks like more spam from the university.”  

“You getting enough sleep?”

Armin laughed.  “ _Yes,_ mother, I’m working a later shift.”  His eyes flicked to Marco and he blinked, appearing to notice him for the first time.  “Oh! Hey. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“ _Oh_ right.  Marco, Armin Artlet.  Armin, Marco.  My…” Jean grimaced,  “ _bodyguard.”_ He pronounced bodyguard to rhyme with _gangrenous infection._

“I get all tingly when you talk about me like that,” Marco said mildly.  “Nice to meet you.”

 

“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Jean explained as they walked back down to the sidewalk.  “He’s head administrator of that office now, and _still_ going to night school, God knows why.  I send some of my official stuff to his office, otherwise my mom steals my bills out of my mail box and pays ‘em.  It’s...kind of an ongoing competition.”  

Marco giggled, sweeping the sidewalk before they stepped onto it, heading back to Jean’s apartment near the boundary of campus.  “And if you’re running short on cash you let her win, right?”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”  Jean ripped open the last of the envelopes, a flat 5x7 manilla.  “The hell…?”  He stopped on the sidewalk, pulling a second envelope out of the first.  Marco looked over his shoulder, and felt his heart stop in his chest.

“Jean, _Jean wait--”_ Marco reached out to grab his wrist, too slow to prevent him from opening the envelope (ripping through the block letters, **RB-BH-AL** in place of a return address.)

Jean went dead still, color slowly draining out of his face.  Marco kept one hand on his arm, and reached for his cell phone with the other.  He flipped it open left-handed, and punched a speed dial; _Survey - emergency line._

“Zoe, is that you?” Jean looked up at him, eyes wide and swirling with terror and confusion, and Marco kept his voice absolutely level.  He moved his hand to Jean’s shoulder and squeezed it briefly before gently tugging the photograph out of his hand.

This picture wasn’t from a grainy, gun mounted camera.  It was in full color, bright, sharp focus.  And it was of _both_ of them, Marco smiling and Jean looking up at him sideways, expression hidden by his sunglasses...walking out of the university library, barely an hour ago.  There was a new note, too.  Same red ink, same hasty scribble...different indecipherable message scrawled across Jean's face.

**TWENTY PERCENT**

Marco took a long, slow breath.  “I need backup Zoe, and I need it _now._ I’m coming in.”

 

 

 

* * *

**!Coming in Our Next Issue!**

 

 

* * *

Plots thicken!  Secrets abound and meanings multiply!  What strings in this spider’s web lead to answers...and what lead only to more secrets?  Who is an enemy? Who is an ally?  It all leads back to one mystery... **Twenty Percent.** (Chapter 3 of Strings, a serial adventure story, coming soon!)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that took far longer than anticipated. I hope it was worth the wait! I swear we are nearly done with world building, tune in next time for the good stuff! The start of the good stuff. I hope.


	3. Twenty Percent

 

“ _What happened_? What the _hell_ happened?”

“Why don’t you tell me?  This is _your_ show, you told me it was under control!”

“It _was_ under control, this came out of fucking _nowhere._ ”

“You _promised_ me, you _son of a bitch,_ you swore up and down we weren’t sending him back into the line of fire, and that’s a load of hot air now isn’t it?”  

“ _Levi--”_

“So what changes?  Are we looking at the possibility of an actual _hit_ on the kid now?”

“I doubt it.  This feels like a small scale kind of a show.”  Irvin Smith propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the oncoming migraine.  “Get anything from that administrative kid? Artlet, right?”

Levi glared at the commander for a minute more, and then blew out a breath and dropped bonelessly into the chair behind him. “Timing all checks out.  Marco and Jean left the library at 4:40, took them thirty minutes to walk there.  Artlet says he checked his mailbox at five when he locked the main doors...plenty of time for someone with a car or a bike to print out a photo and toss it in the slot.  Hell, they probably could have done it by running.”

“What about the envelope?”

“That was always wishful thinking.  It was hand-delivered, like all the _other_ inter-office mail in that place.”

“S’pose it would have taken a hell of a lucky break. And when was the last time we got one of those?”

“1999?”

“Sounds about right.”

They lapsed into dismal silence, Irvin idly spinning a copy of the new photo around on the surface of his desk.  Levi took advantage of his distraction to snag the Starbucks cup by his elbow and drain it.  

“How did this happen?” he said eventually.  “Someone is _tailing_ him and they’re doing it better than we ever did.  They knew he got mail delivered to Artlet occasionally! Did _we_ know that?”

“Look, I’ve got a full team on Jean now, but other than that...what do we do but wait it out?”  Irvin rolled his neck, vertebrae popping.  

Levi closed his eyes, scraping a hand through his hair. “This ain’t the old days, Irvin,” he said softly, voice tired.  “We don’t deal in _acceptable losses_ anymore, _you_ were the one who told me that.   _Pourvu que je ne revois jamais ce lieu_...right?”

“ _Ne revois jamais,”_ Irvin echoed.  “I never meant to put them in danger, I promise you.  We didn’t chose him to be cannon fodder...we chose him because he can take it. Right?”  

Levi just sighed heavily, raising a hand to rub the side of his neck through his scarf.  “Some days I wish I could see where you’re going, when you’re always twelve steps ahead...times like this, I think I _never_ want to know.”  

The commander’s eyes went dark, just for a second, as he looked at his old friend.  “I don’t like this any more than you do...we just have to trust that Marco’s the right man for the job.  It’s all down to him now.”

 

 

 

 

 

Marco finally escaped the Survey offices well after midnight, feeling like his brain had been run through a cheese grater, and caught one of the overnight trains across the city.  He bought a cup of something that was nominally coffee from a kiosk at the El station -- it tasted like burnt acid but it kicked like he’d licked a nine-volt battery with his stomach, and he had to hope that, combined with the increasingly cold night air, it would be enough to keep him conscious.  

There was a someone sitting on the steps outside Jean’s apartment building, just a dark silhouette under the flickery fluorescent streetlight.  Anyone else probably would have wondered why a young woman was sitting so casually by herself on a pitch black Chicago night, mostly because her sweater and loose skirt effectively hid the various weapons on her person.  Marco, on the other hand, recognized both the subtle quirks of posture caused by concealed weapons, and more immediately the can of Pringles.

“Hey Sasha. You look cute.”

“ _You_ look like a road-killed possum,” Sasha Blause, one half of his new and hastily assembled security team, said cheerfully.  She extended the Pringles in his direction.

“I’d be offended if it wasn’t true,” Marco sighed, helping himself to a handful.  Sasha sharing chips was a not-to-be-missed opportunity.  “How’s our boy?”

“Pretty okay, actually,” Sasha said, leaning back and resting her elbows on the step behind her.  “He’s inside with Connie.  Y’know, he’s got more guts than I would’ve expected.”

“He’s like that,” Marco said, mostly to himself.  “You good out here?”

Sasha shook her can with the calculating air of a professional.  “At least three more hours.”  

Marco left her reclining on the steps and headed inside, pausing to check over each of the building’s steel doors.  Jean’s cavalcade of academic scholarships meant that most of the money he made as a data cruncher for one of the legal offices at the university went straight to rent, and his apartment had a pretty serviceable security to begin with. Marco had been gradually tweaking it to his satisfaction wherever he thought he could get away with it.  Ideally he’d be able to get one way hinges on the doors eventually, but for now he’d settle for steel-frame…

Head buzzing as the coffee kicked in, he let himself into Jean’s apartment and relocked the door behind him.  Better deadbolt...would it be worth it to change locks following the second threat?  Couldn’t hurt...windows locked hard but what about the screens…

“...so he turns on the lights, and then there’s a _clink_ and she puts her glass eye back in.”

Marco’s brain short circuited briefly as it tried to fit that sentence in with the rest of his train of thought.  There was laughter, actual _laughter,_ coming from the apartment’s tiny kitchen.

“...that is _depraved._ I like it!”

“I told you my mom is awesome.”

“Where did she _get_ these jokes?”

“She was an army medic in the Persian Gulf,” Jean was saying as Marco entered the kitchen, blinking in the sudden brightness.  “She’s told me a few that are worse, but they’re really only funny in French…”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”  Marco asked, slumping into an unoccupied chair at the rickety card table in Jean’s kitchen.  “Hi, Connie.  Anything happen I should know about?”

Connie Springer shrugged from his perch on the kitchen counter.  “Sasha says the only person to go in or out was you, no cars acting weird...if the second threat was for real, they aren’t moving on it tonight.”  He pushed himself off the counter and landed silent as a cat on the tiled floor.  “So where do you want me?”

Marco considered, but only for a moment. “Right here. And call Sasha in too, if she’s got her ears on.”  He pulled a bundle of clipped-together photos out of the inside pocket of his jacket and dropped them on the table, and Connie cocked his head.

“This is called abusing the ability to make judgement calls,” Marco said, in answer to the unasked question.  “Take notes, rookie.”

Jean reached out and pulled the photos towards him with a fingertip.  “Is this...what I think it is?”

Marco nodded. The door opened and closed quietly as Sasha joined them, coming to stand beside Connie.  “I’m done leaving you in the dark.”  Jean tugged the clip loose, and they spread the series of pictures out over the table.  He bit his lip, scratching idly at the red words with a fingernail, as if rubbing away the words would put his life back together.  

“This is the new one?” Sasha asked, picking up the single color photo.  “Looks like an iPhone…what’s _twenty percent?_ ”

“Your guess is as good as mine.  Zoe and co. have been on it all night, but I don’t think they have any ideas yet--”

“I think I might.”

All three agents turned to look at Jean, still staring down at the table, shoulders hunched.  He kept picking at the photo in front of him, _skritch skritch skritch,_ chewing on his lower lip.

“Jean?” Marco said, softly.  “Hey.” He touched the back of his hand, trying to get his attention without startling him.  “No such thing as useless information.”

Jean clenched his fingers into a fist.  When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth, voice shaky with emotion. “A-after Maria, after the explosion, my dad, he offered jobs to a lot of the workers who were displaced, helping with the cleanup.  And most of them took the offer -- I mean, those factory jobs didn’t pay much to start with, they didn’t have any other choice, but…” he squeezed his eyes shut, and the next sentence came out in a rush.  “There were leaks everywhere, chemical hazards they didn’t disclose and none of them were trained to deal with that kind of shit...people got sick.   _Fatally._ Cancers, immune failures, emphysema, the whole spectrum and of course no one could prove anything.  It never even went to court,  but...the unofficial number is one in five.  Of everyone who was sent back in after the explosion, one in five died.”  

“One in five,” Sasha repeated.  She looked up at Marco, eyes wide.  “Twenty percent.”

“Shit,” Connie observed.  

Jean went back to scratching, hands shaking.  From the catch in his voice and the tension in his shoulders Marco suspected he was holding back tears.

“We’re locked down, right?” he said, looking at the other two.  Connie nodded.  “Go home guys, I’ll see you back here tomorrow.  Get some sleep.”

Sasha raised her eyebrows at him, _are you sure,_ but didn’t say anything to challenge it.  She was probably right, she usually was, he was going on thirty hours without sleep and tomorrow ( _today,_ technically) was Halloween. This was probably a stupid decision, and yet…

“How you holding up?” Marco asked, gathering up the photos.  Jean didn’t reply, picking up the photo in front of him and staring at it intently, dark brows knitted in a frown.

“I’ve seen this before.”

“Hm?”

“RB-BH-AL.” He dropped the picture and leaned back, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “I’ve seen it before, _somewhere,_ I know I have.  Fuck...can’t think of anything…”

“It’s okay.” Marco smiled crookedly at him, taking the last picture and clipping them back together, face down.  “One miracle per night is plenty.”  Jean gave him the _what the fuck are you talking about_ look Marco had come to know and love over the last few months.

“Twenty percent,” he explained.  “Do you have any _idea_ how far ahead that puts us, having that information?  Ten minutes ago we had _nothing._ Survey’s got the high ground now, thanks to you.”

Jean opened his mouth, but seemed unable to form a reply.  After a few awkwardly silent seconds his face clouded and he slouched over the table, resting his chin in his palm.

“You look angry,” Marco observed, after a moment, watching his face.

“I _am_ angry,” Jean spat, eyes still locked on the table top, face white and tense.  “Just...I don’t know who to be angry _at..._ my dad caused all this, these fucks are trying to get at him, whatever, I’ll hold the door open for ‘em on the way out.  They’re not gonna get anything out of that bastard using _me_ as leverage. After he caught me kissing another guy when I was fifteen, he’d probably pay them to _keep_ me. And now they’re using Maria survivors, haven’t they been hurt _enough?_ I--I just...shit…” he trailed off and covered his face with his hands.  “I just wanna be something other than scared.”  He looked up and gave a weak smirk, a lame attempt to reclaim his usual detached cynicism.  “I...I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep tonight.”

Marco glanced at his watch.  “Sun’s gonna be up in a few hours anyway.”  He hopped out of his chair and grabbed two university-freebie coffee mugs, aware of Jean’s quizzical stare.  “I bet you get a great view of the sunrise from that picture window.”  He reached for a cupboard and began rummaging for coffee supplies.

Jean’s chair scraped back across the floor, and a few seconds later a pack of coffee filters bounced off the back of Marco’s head.

In the end, they never actually made it out of Jean’s cramped little kitchen, sitting at the card table drinking their way through a few pots of Marco’s pitch black coffee.  He claimed, in his defense, that the coffee was a virus that afflicted anyone exposed to Survey people for too long, rendering its victims incapable of brewing any other kind of coffee.  That lead Marco into the saga of Zoe’s various methods of asserting her dominance on Survey’s computer network.  The next thing he knew Jean was describing the twenty-year-running grudge match that was April Fool’s with his mother and Marco nearly asphyxiated trying not to laugh with a mouthful of coffee.

He told Jean about his childhood growing up in Brussels, in and around the American Embassy where his parents, American father and Belgian mother, worked.  Jean in turn had plenty of stories about the summers he’d spent with his grandparents, in his mother’s hometown in eastern France…

...and then, somehow, there was sunlight streaming through the windows and Levi’s voice on his phone, telling him to leave Jean to Sasha and Connie and get his ass back to the office for a strategy meeting.  

He should have been mostly a zombie, running on too little sleep and too much bad coffee, but for some reason Marco felt good.   _Better_ than good, in fact, far better than he’d felt five hours ago getting off the train.  Connie shot him a sidelong glance as Marco skipped down the steps past him, humming to himself in some kind of strange elation.  Some rational part of his brain was trying to attract his attention, telling him that he should be feeling conflicted, guilty for using Jean’s anger to drag information out of him and guilty that he hadn’t pressed him further, but today of all days it just wasn’t sticking and the frustratingly _simple_ reason was that he could make Jean laugh.  

Marco got off the train two stops early and walked the rest of the way to Survey.  Maybe it was all the coffee but he couldn’t sit still, maybe it was the sleep deprivation and the satisfaction of his new information making him giddy and not the image behind his eyes of the way Jean’s face changed when he smiled.

“What were _you_ smoking?” Captain Levi said by way of greeting, when Marco reached the Survey building.  He was reclining against the wall by the side door again, in his usual smoking spot out of the wind.

“The sweet narcotic liqueur of success,” Marco replied cheerfully, holding the door open.  Levi just lowered his cigarette and stared.  

“I know what ‘twenty percent’ is about.  Happy Halloween, captain!”

Levi raised his eyebrows and ground out the cigarette against the wall before following Marco inside.

“Happy fuckin’ Halloween, Marco.”

 

 

 

* * *

**Don’t Go Away!**

A small victory for our heroes...but is it the first step of the ladder to victory, or a thoughtless tread on the road to Hell?  On this frosty Halloween, life and death are balanced by a delicate string, a sword waiting to fall!! Tune in for the next chapter of ‘Strings: A Serial Adventure Story’ and find out -- who sits on the throne beneath the fragile sword of **Damocles?**

 

 

 

* * *

 


	4. Damoclese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back! Long wait, long chapter to make up for it! (I hope)
> 
> Some stuff:
> 
> 1\. My incredibly awesome friend Taylor provided an absolutely incredible illustration that can now be found in chapter 3! She's on tumblr at con-affetto-kiko.tumblr.com, so go take a look at her stuff.
> 
> 2\. This entire AU is still the brainchild of yil, of yilyil.tumblr.com and tuxedo-bomber.tumblr.com, her art is still amazing, and you should still check her out. 
> 
> 3\. Yes, Eren's halloween costume IS what you think it is.
> 
> 4\. (Shameless self promotion alert) I'm also on tumblr at kenjiandcompany.tumblr.com, where there will be progress updates and various other stupidity, including a selection of silly headcanons about the Strings universe 
> 
> 5.If you need a reading soundtrack, may I recommend the songs I've been playing on endless repeat while writing this chapter-
> 
> The perfect Jean song: "Maybe Tomorrow is a Better Day" by Poets of the Fall. Equal parts loneliness, fear, anger, and some kind of stubborn optimism...and maybe just a liiiitle over-dramatic.
> 
> And Marco's song: "Dawn" also by Poets of the Fall - this one is self evident, believe you me. Both are available in abundance on Youtube
> 
> 6\. Provide your own goddamn Whitney Houston

 

**Chapter 4: Damocles**

The sun was low in the sky and the wind starting to sting when Marco finally turned up again, looking preoccupied. He still hadn’t changed clothes, and there was, for the first time in Jean’s memory, a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw (although it still wasn’t enough to make him look older than eighteen.) Connie and Sasha converged on him, the three agents speaking in high-speed whispers.  Marco looked at his watch, and Jean realized as his sleeve pulled back that his little wrist transmitter was gone, replaced by the earpiece worn by every action-movie bodyguard in history.  He remained uncharacteristically quiet, and kept shaking his head in quick little movements, like the coiled wire pressed against his neck was a fly he was trying to shoo away.

Jean kept watching that stupid wire stretch and contract with every step his bodyguard took as they got off the El train and crossed the windy platform. Tiny little change, no big deal. Just another reminder that everything was changing, yet again.

Everything except Marco. Dumb thought, but it made Jean smile, walking a few steps behind him as usual. Connie and Sasha were fun, and they sure knew what they were doing, but...after this long, bizarre day he felt better for having Marco around again.  

It was at that point Jean realized he’d been staring fixedly at the back of Marco’s neck for the better part of five minutes, and redirected his gaze with a gulp.

“Marco?  Oh my _God, Marco!”_

Marco and Jean both looked around, and Marco jumped a foot.  Jean watched with interest as his eyes briefly bugged out of his head, and then he grinned.  

“Holy--Krista! Wait, agh, sorry... _Historia.”_

A young woman about Jean’s age caught up to them in a wheelchair, pulling to a stop so fast she practically drifted on the wet pavement, and flung out her arms with a beaming smile.  Despite the look of shock on his face, Marco still glanced around them in a wide sweep before he dropped to his knees to hug her.

“What the hell hole did Garrison hide you in?” Historia (apparently) pulled back and punched Marco in the arm with an audible smack. She was _beautiful,_ almost movie-star beautiful, with liquid blue eyes and platinum blonde hair braided over one shoulder. Jean continued to observe.  This looked like a goldmine of blackmail material, and he owed Marco vengeance for adding several paragraphs discussing _Aragorn son of Arathorn heir of Isildur v. Denethor son of Ecthelion steward of Gondor, 780th year of the Third Age of Middle Earth_  to an essay on real estate disputes.

“I’m actually with Survey now,” Marco was saying, rubbing his arm with a wince.  “Different, uh…” his eyes flicked towards Jean.  “Different kind of a thing.  What’d you do with Miri?”

“Back in school.   _Someone_ made her want a graduate degree before she settles down.”  Marco blushed and ducked his head.  “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”

“Oh come on, you don’t want _me_ there--”

“ _Right?”_ Historia snarled, her sparkly smile never wavering.  

“Doesn’t Ymir have a brother or something?”

“We’ve had this discussion already. I want it to be _you_ rollin’ me down the aisle and so does she, no arguments.  I’m calling in your debt.”

“My--oh _seriously?”_ Marco heaved a theatrical sigh.  “I’m not getting out of this, am I?”

“Not a chance in hell.  This is my train, gotta go!”  Another one of those Incredible-Hulk punches caught Marco on the shoulder, and Historia reached up for another hug.  “Good to see you back on your feet,” she whispered, close to his ear, and her arms tightened briefly around his shoulders.  “See ya later, mister best man!”

“Take care of yourself, Historia,” Marco said softly, standing up.  He was smiling, but...Jean tilted his head, trying to figure out that expression.  His smile looked the same as ever, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“ _Calling in your debt?”_ Jean asked, grinning.  Marco stuck his hands back in his pockets.

“Let this be a lesson to you. _Never,_ no matter how tiny and adorable she may be, agree to arm wrestle a girl in a wheelchair,” he said flatly.  The joke did nothing to change the blank, dead look in his eyes, and he pressed the heel of his right hand against his side, just above his hipbone.  It wasn’t the first time Jean had noticed that tic: it tended to surface in these rare moments when Marco went quiet, or when the wind was particularly cold.  

“So...she’s getting married?” Jean asked as they resumed walking.  He felt vaguely unnerved by his usually cheerful bodyguard’s silence.  

“Hm? Oh, yeah.  To my old partner, Ymir -- _one_ of my old partners…” Marco trailed off.

“Do you wanna get out of it? ‘Cause I can totally fake a fever--”

Marco snorted.  “That is...kind of sweet of you, actually.”  He shook his head and laughed, a little self deprecatingly.  “No worries.  I just can’t figure out why she’s so determined to have _me_ there, after…” his eyes went dark again, and for a second Jean could tell he wasn’t seeing the rainy train station, something else playing out in his field of vision making his eyes melt with pain.  

“After?” Jean prompted quietly.

Marco’s hand went back to the spot on his side. “She’s in that chair because of me.”

Jean took that as his cue to shut the hell up.

 

They walked along Midway Plaisance without saying much, headed for the Halloween party at the park south of the university campus.  Marco touched two fingers against his ear once in awhile, like a true Secret Service agent, checking in with Connie and Sasha, already there and staking out the area.  Jean stayed a couple steps behind him as usual, Marco between him and the street, and kept his eyes on his feet until Marco suddenly grabbed his elbow and pulled him off the sidewalk, through the side door of a nearby building.

“And we’re in here why?” Jean asked mildly, looking around the dingy stairwell he was suddenly standing in.  Marco nudged him back another step, staring intently out the narrow window set in the dented aluminum door.

“‘Cause either there are five dirty white Toyota Tacomas on a mile long stretch of road, or that truck has made every turn we have since we got off the train,” Marco replied.  “Chances are it’s a total coincidence, but tonight of all nights humor my paranoia?”  He kept one eye on the street outside, but he shot Jean that over-the-shoulder sunbeam of a smile, and Jean relaxed.  He wandered over to the vending machine up on the landing and started rummaging through his pockets.

“So am I still cleared for the Halloween party?” he asked, grabbing the soda bottle from the bin and opening it gingerly.

“Your call.  One car isn’t enough to put you on lockdown, but if you’d rather go home--”

“I can fake a fever to get out of this one too.” Jean sat down on the steps and grinned at him.  

Marco rolled his eyes.  “You know me. Nothing makes me happier than you staying in and studying every night of the week.”

“By ‘studying’ you refer to you and me playing Risk until three in the morning, right?”

“ _Long-term spatial tactics and resource allocation_ , that’s what Ymir called it when _we_ were students. Counts as studying.”

“Ok, maybe when you’re law enforcement…”

“International relations?” Marco suggested.  “If it keeps you out of the bars I approve of it.”

 **“** What, you got a problem with drinking?”

“Oh no problem, I _love_ getting carded every fifteen minutes,” Marco grumbled.

“It’s the freckles, dude.”

“You say this like it is something I don’t know.” Marco rolled his eyes.  “Just wait ‘til summer, I swear to god they breed like rabbits…”

Jean didn’t hear the rest of the sentence.  A retort died on his tongue as his throat went tight with misery.   _Wait ‘til summer?_ He couldn’t mean...

“You think this is gonna go on until _summer?”_ He covered his face with his hands, failing to keep the faint catch out of his voice.

“Hm? I doubt it--” Marco turned away from the window, and Jean heard him suck in a breath.  “Hey, what’s wrong? Jean?”

Jean blinked at him.  “You...you just made it sound like you’re still gonna be dragging me around come summer…”

Marco’s dark eyes grew wide for a second, and then his expression softened, and he sat down a few steps below Jean.  “What, did you think that once all this blows over I’ll just vanish and you’ll never see me again?” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was nervous about something.  “Float away on my umbrella Mary Poppins-style once you don’t need me anymore?”  

Jean laughed in spite of himself, feeling suddenly stupid.  “That is one _hell_ of a mental image.”  He fiddled with the soda bottle in his hands, mechanically tightening and loosening the cap.  “Never really thought about what comes next, I guess…” he shrugged awkwardly.  “I mean, I’m basically your job, right?”

Marco just _looked_ at him for a long moment, that faint, soft smile on his lips.  “Put it like this,” he said, standing up and walking back to the door, hands in the pockets of his blazer.  “Survey can fire me tomorrow, I’m not going anywhere. For as long as you still feel like you’re in danger, I’ll be right here.  I told you already, I’m here for _you,_ not because your dad pays me.” He grinned introspectively.  “Although the _amount_ your dad pays me would probably make you puke.”

Jean stared at him, feeling like he’d just swallowed his tongue. _I’m here for_ you...he couldn’t begin to formulate a response to that, beyond his stomach doing a weird, queasy flip. He blew out a heavy breath, falling back on his usual refuge, cynicism.

“My dad just does it for appearances.  To look good in the papers, you know? Caring boss, caring father, all that bullshit, I’m used to it.  He’s told me himself, he doesn’t actually care _what_ happens to me.”

Marco folded his arms, settling back against the wall with one leg crossed over the other.  “Yeah? Well I do.”

And that was that. Jean was getting a little too used to feeling like a gibbering idiot around Marco...his infuriatingly casual sincerity did it every time, not even looking at Jean as he spoke, propped against the wall and staring outside.  Sincerity had not been a common feature in Jean’s life, but Marco didn’t seem to know how to be anything _else._

There was this _look_ Marco could give you...Jean had often heard the phrase “look right through you,” but that wasn’t right, that wasn’t really the way Marco seemed to see.  It sounded too invasive, too cold.  Marco could just look _at_ you, with those warm eyes, like he was searching for an answer to a question you’d never thought to ask.  And then he’d drop his gaze and smile to himself in a way that left Jean at a loss to fathom what he’d seen.  

Growing up, _faith_ was a concept Jean often heard, understood in theory, but never really felt _._ His upbringing had been largely areligious, his home life too fragmented and often too bitter for him to connect a feeling to it - _faith_ remained just a word to him.

But lately, he thought maybe he’d _seen_ it, in those fleeting seconds when Marco would look away and smile.

“Alright, I think we’re good,” Marco said, jolting Jean back to reality.  “Still want to go?”

“Let’s do it. Sasha and Connie’ll kill me if they were out in the cold all this time for nothing.”

“Nah, you’re a client.  You get amnesty,” Marco said, holding the door for him.  “ _Me_ they throw off the pier.”

Jean followed him back out into the street, vaguely aware he was grinning like a loon, and not entirely sure _why._ His eyes found their way to the back of Marco’s neck again, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pale skin...his heart seemed to have forgotten how to beat properly, doing some sort of sickly fluttering thing against his ribcage, what the _hell…_

Marco’s words kept replaying themselves in his ears, over and over drowning out the wind and the traffic.   _Yeah, well I do.  Well I do.  I do..._ and he realized that the fluttering in his chest was delirious, half-crazed _happiness,_ pure and simple.  From that stupid four-word phrase--

_Oh._

_Shit._

Jean stopped dead in his tracks on the sidewalk, Marco looked back and raised his eyebrows, saying something that didn’t register past the sudden pounding in his ears.

 _Whenever he’s not around I’m always wondering when he’s gonna be back, hurts like hell to see him look unhappy, I can’t keep my eyes off him and I feel like I’m gonna explode because he said_ I care about you _...how did I not figure this out._

_Am I in love?_

_I think I’m in love with my bodyguard, what do I do now…_

 

“Awww, no Sailor Moon?” Armin said by way of greeting, when Jean finally managed to locate them on the lawn outside the Pub on the edge of campus.  “I was looking forward to that.”

“Who the _hell_ said I was coming as Sailor Moon?”

“You, according to Facebook,” Mikasa said with a smirk, tapping the screen of her phone.  She was dressed in a slightly sparkly black hakama with a white prop sword at her waist, one lock of hair gelled so it fell across her eyes.

“According to Facebook-- _ohhhhhh_ I’m gonna kill him.”

“Do all rich people spend this much time getting trolled by their bodyguards?” Eren chimed in, with his typical shit-eating grin.  

“I’m pretty sure mine’s defective,” Jean sighed. “I’m ready for life to go back to normal.”

“Yeah, but at least you get to feel like royalty, right?” Eren joked. “4.8 million dollar trust fund and a bodyguard in a black suit?”

Jean dropped into the grass next to his friends, suddenly wishing he’d just told Marco he wanted to go home.  “Ever heard of Damocles?” he said blunty. “He sure as fuck got to feel like royalty, right until he noticed the _sword_ over his head.  Just waiting for the string to snap…”

Extremely awkward silence fell like a sword suspended over a throne.

“The fuck are you supposed to be anyway?” Jean said eventually, glaring a Eren for an excuse to break the tension. “Looks like you’re wearing bondage gear.”

“It is _not_ bondage gear, I’m the main character of--”

“One of those weird-ass animes that nobody watches but you,” Armin finished for him with an eyeroll.  “Is this the one with the freaky eye powers?”

“It’s the one where everyone dies,” Mikasa said.  “We’ve been watching it with Mom on the weekends, they’re both obsessed.”

“I watched two hundred episodes of _Bleach_ for you, you can survive twenty-six of--”

Jean tuned him out with a headshake and turned to Armin.  “Have you heard how their mom’s doing?” he asked quietly, as Eren and Mikasa continued to bicker.

Armin shrugged one shoulder.  “Eren said she’s walking better, but once the weather gets nasty...Mikasa’s worrying he’s gonna quit school next semester.  And forfeit _all_ that scholarship money…” his dark eyebrows drew together for a second, in an uncharacteristically angry expression, but then he shook his head and smiled.  “Where is Marco, anyway?  I’d have thought he’d be on you like glue tonight.”

Jean pulled his keys out of his pocket and held up a little rubber disc like an LED flashlight attached to the ring.  “He got fancy.  I have a panic button now.  Something about _establishing a perimeter,_ I don’t know.”

“Nice to have some freedom of movement, huh?”

“Yeah…” _Not really_ …

 _Halloween night,_ Jean thought, _in downtown Chicago, university-wide party, booze galore and even_ Eren _could probably get laid tonight, and I’d rather be holed up in my apartment, reading some book for the eighth time...’cause that’s where he would be._

_Who the hell am I kidding._

“Line’s going down,” Eren said casually as his sister released him from a headlock.  “Wanna see if we can actually get in?”

Jean stood up with his friends, still in a fog until the end of a scarf caught him across the face.

“Hey.” Mikasa said.

“ _What did I do, don’t--”_

 _“_ What’s wrong with you?” she asked, effectively shutting him up.  “You aren’t being annoying and it disturbs me.”

He started to snap something, and then realized this was Mikasa-speak for _I’m worried about you,_ and deflated.

“It’s...been a weird month,” he said with a weak smile.  “I’m okay, I promise.”  Mikasa gave him a look that suggested she didn’t entirely believe him, and went to catch up with Eren and Armin.

Jean turned to follow her, but something was nagging at him, trying to catch his attention...his eyebrows furrowed and he looked back, trying to spot what he’d just seen but not actually noticed, out of the corner of his eye--

Jean hissed between his teeth and grabbed Eren’s shoulder.  His friend gave him a confused look, and then his eyes went wide with anger as he followed Jean’s gaze.  A girl about their age, with thick black hair in two loose braids, was backed into in the shadow at the edge of the building, a dim corner where the streetlamps didn’t quite reach, cornered by three guys easily a foot taller than her.  She held her hands up in front of her face, pressing herself into the wall at her back, from her body language Jean suspected she didn’t speak English very well.

“Oh that’s not good,” Armin said on his other side.  “Wait-- _wait, Eren--shit!”_

Eren was long gone, running across the grass with his teeth bared in a snarl.  Mikasa swore and sprinted after him as Eren strode up to the tallest member of the group and grabbed him roughly by the arm, growling something.  Armin and Jean broke into a run a second later as the fist slammed towards Eren’s head. He ducked a second too late and the heavier man’s knuckles grazed his cheek, knocking him off balance.  Eren’s assailant jumped on him as he stumbled, rolling them both to the pavement and one of his friends reached out to grab the girl.

Jean hesitated as Mikasa ran towards her brother.  Mikasa and Eren both had martial arts training under their belts, but against three guys, all bigger than them and a terrified girl in the middle of it?  And all their opponents had that swaggering, boozy confidence to their movements that meant they’d be throwing punches before they listened to logic. Jean slipped his hand into his pocket, threading a finger through his key ring.  

“If I get in the middle of this, can you get the girl out of there?” he muttered to Armin.  Armin raised his eyebrows, and Jean pulled his keys half out of his pocket, enough for the rubber disc of his panic button to be visible.  Armin nodded once, _got it,_ and Jean gritted his teeth. There was no way this ended that wasn’t extremely painful.  

“ _Get your fucking hands off her!”_ he yelled, putting as much volume into it as he could, heads were turning in his peripheral vision and Jean shoved himself between the girl and the man grabbing her, pushing her behind him.  He saw the fist draw back and kicked, blindly, realizing as soon as he connected that he’d thrown himself off balance, Jean stumbled to the side, flinging out his hands to catch his balance--

\--his keys flew out of his pocket, caught on his fingers, and clattered to the ground ten feet away.

“ _Fuck!”_ Jean yelled, he saw Armin’s head whip around, eyes wide with panic and then he was gone from his field of view with a too-violent movement.  Eren was on his knees, blood streaming from his nose, Mikasa had managed to pull his attacker off but the sheer weight difference between them was overwhelming her, the third man grabbed Jean by the shoulders and shoved him back, snarling something lost in the static as his head cracked against the brickwork, he heard the black-haired girl scream, a hand closed around his throat, he felt something grating under the pressure and--

“That was a _really_ stupid decision,” Marco said pleasantly.  

The pressure on Jean’s neck vanished with a faint, yet incredibly nauseating crackle.  He gasped in a breath that turned into a spasm of coughing, and managed to open his eyes to watch Marco almost delicately take his attacker’s hand and turn his entire arm into a pretzel without apparent effort.  Behind him, Connie had a cellphone to his ear and his foot on the back of Eren’s friend, who appeared to be drooling into the grass.

Armin got shakily to his feet, Jean’s panic button blinking red between his fingers.

“Police are on their way,” Marco said, cool smile still firmly in place...but once again, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.  “ _Do not_ try to move before then unless you want to add assaulting a law enforcement officer to sexual assault.” He raised his voice.  “Sasha? How’s it going?”

There was a loud _zap_ followed by a yell, the mating call of a police-issue taser.

“We’re good.”

 

After twenty minutes and a thorough chewing-out from Mikasa, Eren wandered over and joined Jean and Armin in their heap against the wall.  Mikasa sat a little ways away, arm around the black haired girl (who introduced herself as Mina), talking to her quietly in Japanese.

Eren held out three beers in bruised fingers.  “Happy Halloween,” he said nasally.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Jean leaned back, staring at the open back door of the bar without really seeing it.  He let his gaze fixate on the emergency diagram on the window.  It was taped on over some other, older notice, the backlit letters faintly visible through the paper.  He busied himself trying to read the faded print, to stop himself thinking about Marco. _Please...do not lock...equipment shipment due in..._

Marco casually reducing a two hundred pound tank of adrenaline and alcohol to a whimpering lump.  His familiar smile, his completely unfamiliar eyes...he hadn’t even broken a sweat, like all this was a minor annoyance, perhaps a bee sting.  Except for the icy, bone-deep _rage_ behind his eyes that scared Jean far more than his throbbing neck.  

_Deliver...burner...unit, signature from R. Benson_

_equipment_

_burner_

_R. B--_

Jean sat up, very slowly, as though moving too quickly might dislodge the image bubbling up out of his memory.

 _Equipment.  Burn.  RB_ printed letters with light behind them, a floor plan of a building...not daring to look away, not daring to blink, he pulled a pen out of his jacket and began to sketch on the palm of his hand.

 _Equipment.  Burn._ An industrial layout, geometric shapes indicating _equipment, delivery, burn,_ and another sheet of paper over the top _equipment, burn, RB_

_RB BH AL_

He finally risked looking away, holding the little ink spiderweb on the palm of his hand up to the light--

“Marco! _Marco!”_ Eren and Armin both jumped and Jean launched off the sidewalk, half-falling towards his bodyguard talking to the small cluster of police officers.

  
“Jean!” Marco broke off his conversation mid-word and ran to meet him, catching him by the shoulders.  “Hey, hey, you ok? Is your head--”

“No, no, _shut up_ it’s not that!” Jean yelled “Marco, RB--BH--AL, I know where it was, I know where I’ve seen it!”

He felt vaguely hysterical, his friends were staring at him, Armin pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it without looking at the screen.

Marco’s hands tightened on his shoulders.  “Tell me where.”

“The central office! My _dad’s_ office! _.”_ He held up his hand.  “It was a workflow diagram, they were initials on workstations at the _Maria plant!_ The _old_ plant, on the north wall, the wall that blew out in the accident.  Marco, it was taped to a light table, someone was _tracing_ it.”

Marco’s face had gone absolutely still.  “You’re sure.  Jean, you’re sure, you’re absolutely _sure?”_

Jean could have strangled him.  “ _Yes,_ oh my god, it was two _weeks_ ago!  Right after--”

“Right after the first threat,” Marco whispered.  “Two miracles in one day.

“Let’s go! I’ve got a key, I can get us in, if there’s any chance it’s still there--”

Marco hesitated, and closed his eyes like he was fighting with himself.  “ _Shit_ let’s do it.  Let’s do it, I can get us a car--don’t move,” he started to walk away, already dialing-and then stopped and looked back.

“God love you Jean,” he whispered, eyes flickering, just like they had when he looked at Historia.

“Jean?”

 _The hell was that?_ Jean wondered.

 **“** Hey, Jean?” Eren repeated.  He came closer and caught his arm, wobbling a little on his feet.

“What _is it,_ Eren?”

“Listen, this is gonna sound stupid but...screw it I can’t get it out of my head after what you said earlier.”

Jean raised his eyebrows.

“You know what everyone always forgets about the story of Damocles?”

“Yeah, that does sound stupid--”

“ _The string didn’t break,”_ Eren snarled over Jean’s quip, fingers digging into his arm.  “Damocles _lived._ He walked away when the night was over...and he was a better man because of it.”  He glared up at Jean, daring him to laugh.  Jean just heaved a sigh.

“I feel like I should be insulted.”

Eren laughed.  “Yeah, probably.”

“Jean!” That was Marco, standing near the street, waving him over.  Jean waved to his friends, headed for the street--

\--another faint twinge, something in the corner of his eye, screaming at his brain to notice--

\--a screech and a mechanical roar, someone _screamed_ his name--

The white pickup truck screamed across Midway Plaisance at a sheer angle, tires skidding, too fast for an inner city street and with a sort of terrible clarity Jean watched the Toyota logo on the grill jolt as the truck mounted the curb and the headlights were suddenly level with his chest.

There was a split second glance of Marco’s face, Jean’s name still on his lips, before the blue-white light swallowed him.

 

 

 

 

* * *

**Join us Again!**

Will there be answers, or only more questions?  What new hardships face our heros as enemies appear on all sides?  And in the end, what will be the first to break--the tangled threads of the spider’s web...or the fragile, fragile **Heartstrings?**

**Chapter 5 of STRINGS: A Serial Adventure Story COMING SOON**

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And since I forgot earlier, beta credit and much thanks due to bearsthethird for helping me sort out relationship pacing, fixing my plot problems, laughing at my horrible jokes and convincing me that "What is it Eren" and the bondage gear line were good ideas.
> 
> So blame her.


	5. Heartstrings

**Chapter 5: Heartstrings**

He should have been ready for the alarm. He’d thought he was done dealing with triggers, that he’d finally locked off the last few hardwired links to the memories...but not that alarm.

Marco _felt_ the shrieking sound of a pressed panic button before he realized what he was hearing, in a stabbing shock through the old scar in his right side.  He’d  slammed a hand over the spot and, just for a second, he’d seenthe blood oozing between his fingers, felt it on his skin hot and slick and real--

And then the girl had screamed, and that was enough to break the illusion and ground him back in reality, because that scream was fear, not the ragged choking of someone going into shock.   _This_ was a situation he could control, no blind alley no gun between his eyes no Krista bleeding out on the ground, just a couple of drunk thugs who had no idea he was coming, just a part of his job.

They were lucky, in the end.  If he hadn’t been so wound up, hyper-aware from the adrenaline and the anger and the residual terror, he never would have spotted the truck.

It spun out of a side street on two wheels, swerving through a narrow gap in the traffic and veering across all three lanes.  Marco was moving before the front tires crossed the median, the bluish glare of xenon headlights throwing his shadow across the ground in front of him, Jean was turning, his face skeletal white in the harsh light, wouldn’t be able to push him hard enough to get him out of the way—

Marco caught Jean’s outstretched arm and _pulled,_ flinging himself backwards as Jean tumbled into his arms.  He remembered at the last second to tuck his head before they landed, impact sending bolts of pain up and down his spine.  The momentum of the fall sent them rolling and skidding several yards across the wet grass, away from the street as the truck swerved off the sidewalk and back into traffic in a cacophony of honking.

He left Jean in a heap on the ground, launched back to his feet by pure, animalistic adrenalin. He crossed the lawn in three steps, a snarl tearing out of his throat as the truck disappeared around a corner.  Two of the squad cars peeled away from the curb, lights spinning.  Marco jumped after them, out into the street, determined to...what?   _Kill ‘em,_ his brain was on fire, _run them down and shoot, it’s not too late this time, they tried to hurt him they tried to kill him they tried to take him away from me give him back he’s MINE--_

“ _Marco.”_ Sasha was suddenly right beside him, one foot still on the curb.  “Tell me why we need our weapons drawn.”

“ _What--”_ and then Marco looked down at a hand that looked like someone else’s, holding _his_ nine-millimeter Glock...with the safety off.  The wild, furious energy disappeared in a snap and left him empty and shaking.  

Sasha had her own weapon drawn, held in rest position near her hip, still staring at him intently.  “Tell me what made you draw your gun,” she said, enunciating every word clearly, as though she wasn’t sure if he could understand her or not.  Marco stared at her blankly, and her brown eyes flicked briefly to the side, where the remaining CPD officers were staring at them in alarm...Marco was suddenly aware of how absolutely _crazy_ he must have looked, sprinting into traffic like he was going to run down a _truck_ on foot--

He finally realized what Sasha was trying to do, and deliberately reset the safety catch before re-holstering his gun.  She’d drawn her gun to make it look like she was following her leader’s decision, if she’d hesitated it would have been obvious to everyone in the vicinity that he’d snapped.  And now she was giving him an out, a chance to explain himself, by asking him to ‘clarify her orders.’   _Think fast…_

“G-gun rack,” he stuttered.   _Shit_ that didn’t sound any less crazy, he was still shaking with adrenaline hard enough to make his teeth chatter.  He took a deep, slow breath.   _You aren’t crazy, you actually saw something what did you see, (he’s okay he’s not hurt you got there in time.)_

“I believe there was a gun rack in the back of the white truck,” Marco said, forcing down enough of the shaking to at least fake composure.  “It may have been a roll cage or reinforcing, but it looked like a rack to me.  Gunfire was a possibility.”

Sasha nodded to him, her face relaxing in relief.  She stepped closer, reholstering her slim black Beretta.  “We’ll deal with the uniforms,” she whispered.  “Get Jean _out of here_ and lock him down until we know what happened.  I’ll be on the door inside an hour.”  She tapped her ear with two fingers.  “Keep your radio on.”

Marco nodded, rubbing his eyes.  He was starting to lose track of how long he’d been awake, and apparently this God-forsaken night as only getting started.

 

* * *

A couple of CPD medics checked Jean over and declared him basically ok, scraped up and bruised but nothing that would be life threatening.  Marco himself was hardly any less of a mess - his blazer was pretty thoroughly shredded after its bouncing trip across the sidewalk, and he could feel his shirt sticking to the long stripes of missing skin on his back.  He’d picked up a bloody scrape on the cheek somewhere and something weird and painful was happening in his left ankle...not to mention he’d been awake for two days, he needed to take care of himself at some point, but that would mean leaving Jean...

He had yet to hear Jean say a word, moving silent and passive in whatever direction he was steered as Marco bundled him into the back of a squad car. That was far more worrying than the bruises on his neck, and no way was Marco leaving him alone like this.

The squad car dropped them off at the steps of Jean’s building, with a memo that Sasha wasn’t far behind. Marco never let his grip on Jean’s elbow ease up, but the kid climbed the stairs on his own and stayed steady as Marco unlocked the apartment door.  The second they were through, however, the act dropped and he slumped to the floor, not even bothering with the extra dozen steps around the corner to the living room.  Marco dropped to his knees beside him and put both hands on his shoulders.

“Jean.”  He shook him gently.  “Jean, I need you to look at me.  Can you focus on me?”

“Knock it off, I’m fine.”

“Did you hit your head when you fell?”

Jean shook his head.  “No, you caught me...it’s just my arm--ahg--”

“Let me see?”  Jean didn’t resist, letting Marco gently extend the arm he’d fallen on.  Connie’s voice crackled through his radio, Sasha had found the uniform who’d found the bystander who’d gotten a look at the liscence plate, though he wasn’t sure of all the numbers...better than nothing…

“Do you need medical assistance?” Marco blinked.  That was commander Irvin’s voice and that meant someone knew something he didn’t.  Focus on the situation...Jean’s wrist was hellishly swollen and he was missing a lot of skin, but nothing felt broken, just a bad sprain...and the kid was fighting hard to keep it together, but he was _scared_ and another raft of new people wouldn’t do anything to help.  “Stay here for a minute,” he told Jean, squeezing his uninjured arm, and stood to walk around the corner.

“No significant injuries, sir,” he reported.  “At this point I think a med team is just going to freak him out more.  I’ll take him in to get his arm x-rayed tomorrow, but he doesn’t have anything that’ll get worse before then.”

“Roger that,” Irvin said, and then “debrief in eight hours, be ready.”

Marco sighed heavily and flipped his radio off of transmit.  

 

The significance of the brief conversation didn’t hit home for another half-hour, after he’d gotten some water and some serious painkillers into Jean and was in the process of wrapping his sprained arm.

Irvin had let him make the call...not _I’m sending you a medic,_ he’d said _do you need a medic._ Irvin’s decision had been to trust Marco’s.

“What’re you grinning at?” Jean mumbled, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Long story.  My boss gave me a compliment thirty minutes ago and I just now realized it...tells you everything you need to know about my boss, huh?”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

“You have no idea.  Wiggle your fingers for me.  How’s that feel?”

“It’s fine.”

“Painkillers kicking in yet?”

Jean grinned distantly at the ceiling, slumped back against the couch cushions. “Ohhhhh yeah.”  His smile faded, gradually, as he toyed with the medical tape around his wrist and Marco repacked his medkit.  “Marco?  I know you probably aren’t allowed to be honest, but...how scared should I be?”

Marco looked down into his amber eyes, and realized he didn’t know how to answer that.  The only thing he could think of, right at this moment, was that Jean looked hurt, and tired, and _terrified_ and he hated it.  He sighed, and sat down on the couch next to Jean, pulling off his torn jacket.

“I honestly don’t know what happened tonight,” he told Jean. “There’s every chance it was just some drunk kid, and we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But for right now, we have to assume it wasn’t just bad luck...but I’ll tell you this.”  Marco reached out and put his hand on Jean’s shoulder, feeling that he was walking the edge of some boundary but not sure what it was.  “You don’t need to be scared.  We have you covered.  I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you’re _safe_ and we aren’t gonna let anything happen to you.  Tonight was rough, but it was the exception to the rule.  So just...don’t be scared.”

Jean pinched the bridge of his nose, hugging himself unconsciously...and then just sort of slumped sideways until he was leaning into Marco’s side.  He stayed there for a second, and then blinked.  

“The drugs are _definitely_ kicking in.”  Marco laughed, and Jean looked up at him sideways, through the hair falling across his face.  “I s’pose this is in violation of one of your personal protective whatever fucking protocols.”  

Marco thought about it.  Physical comfort _was_ a perfectly appropriate method to keep a targeted party calm under high-stress situations, providing no immediate threat needed to be dealt with and the area was secure.  And any threat that made it through four reinforced doors a stairwell and Sasha’s military-issue Beretta would have to be pretty damn immediate...he shifted enough to free his arm and wrap it around Jean’s shoulders.

“I think I’m permitted to hug you.  When appropriate.”

“ _When appropriate,”_ Jean muttered, and yawned.  “ _Fuck_ I’m sleepy.”

“Prescription-grade painkillers tend to do that.”  

Jean sighed and closed his eyes.  Marco let him doze, surreptitiously checking him over for any injuries he might have missed.  His back throbbed and his left sock was soaked through with blood and he was starting to feel the tugging of fatigue himself, but right now Jean needed the sleep far more than he did.  Poor kid...asleep like this, face half buried in Marco’s shoulder, he looked so much younger.  He could be irritating as hell when he wanted to be, but Marco thought he’d prefer prickly, snarky Jean to this burnt out shell any day.

He really liked Jean Kirstein, and it was starting to become a problem.  He was blunt, and cynical, and more defensive than a porcupine crossed with a cactus, but none of that stopped him from being a genuinely good man and no one else, _least_ of all Jean, seemed to be aware of it…

Sirens screamed down the street below the window, shattering his train of thought, and Jean jolted awake, narrowly missing knocking their heads together.  “ _What’s--”_

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s a fire truck--” Marco got his hands on his shoulders and pulled him back down.  “It’s okay, you’re _safe,_ remember? Hey, look at me--”

Jean stared at him blankly, and then the light came on behind his eyes and he dropped bonelessly back to the couch.  “ _Shit,_ I think I’m losing it.”

“You _aren’t,”_ Marco said, it came out rougher than he’d intended and Jean’s head snapped up, eyes wide.  “I _know_ what losing it looks like, from _both_ sides and you aren’t losing it.  Some psychopath dragged you into the middle of a fight that was never yours to start with, there’s no way you ever could have been prepared for this and you’ve been stronger than you should have _ever_ had to be--” he paused for breath-- “and I am _so fucking proud_ of you.”

Jean gritted his teeth and looked away, blinking rapidly, and Marco caught a glimpse of the tears clinging to his lashes.  “Who the hell are _you_ talking about? _”_ He swallowed hard, staring down at his scraped, bruised hands.  “‘Cause it sure ain’t me.”

“I’m serious,” Marco said softly.  “You did good tonight.  God knows what could have happened to that girl if you hadn’t spotted her.”

“Oh come on, someone else would have seen her.”

“ _I_ didn’t.” Jean gave him another one of those skeptical, sidelong looks.  “I wasn’t even a hundred feet from her, I didn’t notice a thing.   _You_ saw her from at least twice that distance, in the dark, through a crowd.  Look, don’t take this the wrong way...you might have been useless in that fight, but you know pretty damn well what it’s like to be scared and overwhelmed and slapped around against your will, and you _saw_ it.   _That’s_ what saved her.  And that’s why I--why I’m proud of you.”

Jean stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide and hollow and filled with something Marco couldn’t name but it scared him senseless…

“Marco, I -- _Marco--”_

That was the moment, the raw desperate edge in Jean’s voice, that doomed them both. He should have been prepared for this, his client was terrified and exhausted and probably a little bit stoned from the painkillers, he felt abandoned and betrayed and he was looking for something to fall back on.  Marco should have seen it coming a mile away and yet in the moment every analytical thought was pushed out of his head by the fact that _never_ in twenty-five years had anyone said his name like...like _that,_ as if--

And then Jean grabbed him by both arms and kissed him.

Marco’s brain went blank.  Too tired and shocked to think, he reacted on instinct, leaning into the kiss and barely aware of anything but the buzzing warmth spreading under his skin.  Jean’s fingers tightened around his biceps, nails catching in his skin, he tilted his head and--

Marco’s earpiece squealed with feedback as someone on the network hit the wrong button.  He started, pulling back and slamming a hand against his ear with a wince...and with the contact broken the reality of the situation hit like a train.

“I-I...I can’t, I have to--” he stuttered, his radio was still buzzing as everyone complained about the noise, he latched onto it as his lifeline. “I-I have to deal with this--” Marco jumped off the couch, palm still pressed to his ear, and bolted out of the room, not daring to let himself see Jean’s face.  

He stumbled across the hall to Jean’s room, slammed the door and leaned against it, breath coming in panicked gasps.  His ear was still full of voices all talking against each other, it was too much to take: Marco hooked his fingers through the cord against his neck and _ripped_ the entire setup loose in a burst of static.  The tangle of wires hit the floor at his feet and he buried his face in his hands, clutching at his temples as the walls came down.

All the emotions he’d spent months very carefully _not_ noticing went through him in a tidal wave, Marco gritted his teeth, sinking to the floor as tears burned behind his eyes.  This was a risk he’d known existed but had never let himself consider, from the moment he’d first met Jean Kirstein’s eyes and known he didn’t need a protector, he didn’t need a guard he needed a _friend._  He’d seen the signs but denied the possibility, that Jean might want him as something more…

“ _No no no, don’t do this to me,”_ he whispered to himself, speaking out loud made him choke on the sobs caught in his throat. “ _You can’t love me, you can’t…”_ something hot dripped over his cheek, one of his nails had nicked the skin.  

“ _Any mention of the company, professionalism goes straight out the window. Pump ‘im,”_ Levi had said.   _You can’t love me, you can’t love me Jean…_

_They’ll make me use it against you._

He could resign his position as a bodyguard, it wouldn’t matter...if Jean actually had feelings for him, this was an information source straight out of Irvin Smith’s wet dreams.  They wouldn’t let him back out, they’d tell him to act on it, go as far as he wanted so long as he kept asking questions once Jean was vulnerable.   _You’re not a bodyguard, you’re not a protector you blew your chance at that, you better be grateful they’d even let you be a fucking_ spy…

“ _Marco...oi, Bodt, turn your fucking radio back on--”_  the voice coming out of his earpiece on the floor was faint and tinny, but it was still recognizable as Levi.   _Shit._ Marco snatched his microphone and hit the transmit switch.

“I’m here--”

“About fucking time. CPD found the truck.”

Marco sat up straight.  “They pulled it over?”

“I said they found the _truck,_ not the driver.  Someone ditched it on a loading yard south of Navy Pier.  It _did_ have a gun rack in the back, nice call.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Marco said with feeling.

“Ready for the kicker? The licence plates were stamped.” Marco’s stomach dropped.  Stamped license plates were the domain of a specific type of criminal with some blank plates of aluminum and a steady hand.  Fakes.  “

“ _And_ the serial number was filed off the engine block,” the captain continued.  “Do I need to paint you a picture?”  

Marco squeezed his eyes shut.  “It was a hit car.  It was deliberate.”

“Ding ding ding,” Levi said flatly.  “Lock our boy down and get over to Survey building, we need to talk--”

The rest of the sentence passed Marco by unheard.  “ _No,”_ he snapped into the microphone, composure finally breaking.  There was a long, expectant silence on the other end.  “I’ve been awake for two days, _sir._ I’m injured, my clothes are shredded, I can’t remember the last thing I ate that wasn’t terrible coffee...I’m going home and _sleeping_.   _And then I’m coming back here and acting like the bodyguard I am.”_

“You don’t say,” Levi said softly, voice expressionless.  “And when can we expect your presence here, _Agent?”_

“When _I’m_ satisfied that Jean is okay!” Marco snarled.  He jerked the microphone jack out of the battery pack and sent the whole contraption spinning across the floor.  

“I’m gonna regret that tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, standing up shakily.  He briefly considered just sneaking out the front door, but...he owed Jean more than that.  Time to face the music…

It turned out Jean had solved that problem for him.  He was fast asleep on the couch, curled in on himself as a compact ball using his uninjured arm as a pillow.  Marco stood in the doorway, muddy and bloodstained and unsteady on his feet, all the pain and misery briefly forgotten as he watched his friend sleep.  

He approached as quietly as he could, although he suspected Jean probably would have slept through a meteor strike after this night.  Marco pulled a threadbare fleece blanket off the back of the couch and knelt to tuck it around Jean’s shoulders.  He shifted slightly, burrowing under it, and Marco smothered a giggle with the back of his hand.   _He’s so cute...and so_ handsome…

Jean’s hair fell across his eyes as he shifted, and his eyelids twitched and furrowed at the irritation.  Marco reached out, hesitantly, and then gave into the temptation and gently ran his fingers through Jean’s soft hair, brushing back the strands.  The faint tear tracks on his cheeks caught the light when he shifted at the touch, and Marco felt his own eyes burning again.  He let his hand linger, thumb resting in the soft dip of his temple.

“ _Why you?”_ Marco whispered, he shut his eyes and felt the tears burn their way across his skin.  “Oh Jean...all the people in this world, why did it have to be _you?”_

 

 

* * *

**To Be Continued!**

 

* * *

Who made the attempt on Jean’s life?  Why is a threat of kidnapping suddenly a threat of murder?  When _Strings: A Serial Adventure Story_ returns, Marco will be forced to confront his muddy history...when a wound never really healed, how can you hide the  **Scars?** **  
**


	6. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, I retconned the last end-of-chapter teaser yet again. This is the price I pay for gimmicks.)
> 
> Alrighty, before we get rolling, I'm going to put a mild content warning at the front of this chapter. While I'm not dealing with anything explicit, this chapter contains both more violence and blood than we've had in the past, and a certain amount self-harm . Nothing is being explicitly depicted, but there's a lot of talk about self-harm compulsions, so please be aware if that's something you need to watch out for!
> 
> <3 <3 <3

**Chapter 6: Scars**

Marco collapsed onto his bed just before sunrise on November first and didn’t move for twelve hours. He would have happily continued not moving for the indefinite future, had Connie Springer not appeared in his bedroom and informed him that he had three minutes to get out of bed and into the shower, or Connie would be happy to strip him and dump a pitcher of water over his head.

“Fair enough,” Marco mumbled, once he’d managed to unstick his eyelids.  “I’m not sure I can get this shirt off by myself, anyway.”

“Kee _-rist.”_ Connie stared at his back as Marco stiffly unbuttoned his shirt.  “You’re a wreck, man.  You didn’t even change clothes?”

“Cut me some slack, I was exhausted--”

“ _Bullshit,”_ Connie said flatly.  He gently helped Marco peel his bloody shirt off, the filthy cloth taking most of the half-formed scabs off with it.  “You’ve got gravel stuck in your skin.  You just don’t bother to take _care_ of yourself-- you could have at least told me or Sasha you got hurt!”

Marco froze solid, a dozen excuses bubbling through his half-asleep mind.  Connie grabbed him by the arm and spun him around, none too gently; his diminutive build made it easy to forget how _strong_ he was.

“Look, you wanna keep telling yourself none of _us_ care when you stumble into work like a week-old corpse...fine, whatever,” Connie growled, glaring up into his face.  “But don’t you _dare_ pull that on Jean.  You think he’s gonna feel safe with a bodyguard that looks like roadkill?”  

Marco shut his eyes, the scabs on his cheek pulling painfully with the movement.  Connie was right, he was slipping...it had been a _long_ time since he’d been this bad, revelling in pain as something he deserved. Connie grabbed his wrist, pulling his fingers away from the bubbled, shiny scars on the inside of his arms.  Marco clenched his fists; he hadn’t been aware of his fingers wandering.  Connie frowned, looking at Marco’s bloody, bitten nails.

“Go get cleaned up,” he sighed.  “I’ll find us some food.”

Marco turned the shower up as hot as it would go and just stood there, eyes closed, letting the scalding water pound down on his face.  He’d been, blessedly, too tired to dream the night before, but now the memories started to bubble back to the surface...he brushed his fingertips over his lips, feeling the residual tingle of Jean’s kiss, Jean _kissed_ him and just the memory was enough to send sparks crackling down his spine, the sting of hot water in his various cuts and abrasions doing little to distract him.  Jean’s voice, rough with nameless emotion as he said Marco’s name, the tremor in his touch and the terror in his eyes when Marco pushed him away...

It was short-sighted of him to assume that Jean hadn’t noticed anything wrong.  Even before the truck he’d felt Jean watching him, like a stray dog that might be dangerous, trying to puzzle out what to do. There was clearly something percolating in the back of his mind after the events of the last few days, _twenty percent_ and his father’s actions, the aftermath of the Maria explosion--

_Maria--_ Marco’s eyes flew open and he slammed the water off, staring blankly at the tile walls.  The emotional swamp of the last twenty-four hours had driven the blueprints out of his mind.  RB--BH--AL, they had a lead on RB-BH-AL...all because of Jean.  Again.

Marco emerged from his bedroom eventually, wearing the closest approximation of a suit he’d been able to come up with (an old vest and a pair of black jeans found lurking in the depths of his closet) and feeling slightly closer to functional.  Connie had commandeered his kitchen and was in the process of flipping more pancakes onto an already loaded plate.  

“Hey, congratulations you look like a human being!” he said cheerfully, waving over one shoulder with a spatula.  “When the hell was the last time you bought groceries?”

Marco shrugged, stomach growling as he eyed the steaming plate.  “I’ve barely _been_ here the last two months.  I sleep at Jean’s place most nights.”

“Well, I had to improvise a few things but the chocolate chips should bridge the gap.”

“I have chocolate chips?”

“Not any more,” Connie grinned. “Eat.”

“Thanks mom.”  A thought that had been gestating in Marco’s fuzzy brain suddenly caught, and he glanced over his shoulder at the front door to his little apartment.  Both deadbolts and the chain were still in place.

“Connie how the _hell_ did you get into my apartment?”

“Window.”  He proffered a plate loaded with pancakes and threw a fork after it.

“I live on the _fourth floor,”_ Marco said, fielding the fork in midair.

“And I’ve qualified for the Olympic gymnastics team twice, what’s your point?”

“You missed a calling as a cat burglar, man.”

“That’s what _you_ think.”

* * *

Marco sent Connie and Sasha home despite their protests; no point in burning all three of them out.  He saw Sasha’s gaze take the same path Connie’s had, sweeping his hands and arms for scabs or spots of blood.

“I’m okay,” he told her softly, one hand on the doorknob.  “Really, I am.  I’m on top of it.”

“He’s gonna ask, you know,” she said.  “He’s been worrying about you all day.”

Marco ran a hand through his hair; twelve hours of sleep didn’t feel like enough anymore.  “I figured.’

Sasha tilted her head, the curls of her ponytail pooling against her neck.  It wasn’t hard to see she knew he was holding something back. “You gonna tell him?”

“I have no idea.”

 

He found Jean sitting on the kitchen counter (Connie was rubbing off on him), knees drawn up to his chest, glaring intently at the bubbling coffee maker. He had an oversized hoodie wrapped around his shoulders, and it served to make him look smaller and more fragile than Marco was used to...especially with the heavy black brace on his wrist.  

Jean barely looked up when Marco entered, and then promptly did a double-take as the new outfit registered.

“That’s a change,” he said, raising his eyebrows.  He tried to keep his cool expression in place, but there was a faint flicker as he took in the bandages on Marco’s face and the scrapes visible around the collar of his shirt.  

Marco shrugged stiffly, rubbing his nose. “That was...kinda the only suit I had.”  Jean smiled, but it looked like his heart wasn’t in it.

The coffee maker beeped, and Jean’s gaze returned to it, maybe a little too fast.  He pulled out the pot and held it up to the light: it may as well have been filled with squid ink.  Jean nodded in apparent satisfaction and poured two cups.  

“How’s your wrist?” Marco asked, mostly for something to say.

“It’s fine...stiff, but doesn’t hurt so much today…” he avoided Marco’s eyes, returning to his perch on the counter.  The silence stretched between them, heavier than it had been since their first few days together.  Jean just kept staring at the floor, dark brows drawn together.

“Hey.”  He spoke without raising his gaze, shoulders hunched.  “I uh...I feel like I owe you an apology.”

“Hm?” Marco hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t that.  “What for?”

Jean glared at him with mute frustration; apparently that had been the wrong thing to say.  “For...for, uh...for last night,” he stuttered.  He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and the rest of the sentence came out in a rush.  “I-I was scared, and I wasn’t thinking and I _know_ I put you in a really awkward position and I’m _sorry--”_ he broke off for a breath, and finally looked up to meet Marco’s eyes, “--and I...I don’t, I _really_ don’t want you to resign because of me but if you have to...if you have to I get it.”  

For a long moment Marco was left completely speechless.  Jean had managed to keep his voice level, mostly, but his eyes were hot and hollow with fear and loneliness and Marco felt his heart break in his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, gently as he could, rubbing at the back of his neck.  “It...it shouldn’t change anything.” _And I was going to pretend nothing happened anyway..._ Marco’s fingers fingers crept unconsciously to the fresh scabs on his wrists, nails scratching at the edges.  It _should_ change something, he thought, should change _everything,_ he should have resigned the position days ago, because…

Because after the kiss he couldn’t keep pretending that Jean’s feelings weren’t mutual.  

“Don’t worry about it,” he said aloud.  “It’s okay, it’s…” _it’s nothing,_ he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say it, it seemed there was still one lie left he couldn’t force off his tongue.  Too conflicted to think straight, Marco’s mouth took off without him.  “It’s not going to last forever, right? I mean, look at Historia and Miri--”

_Shit._

Marco bit off the rest of the sentence, panic shooting through him and he knew it showed on his face.  His eyes met Jean’s, and he watched his expression change...his eyes came alive, lighting up his face from the inside, and that alone was enough to drain the tension out of the air between them.  Marco relaxed enough to remember that there was coffee in his vicinity, and he wasn’t drinking it.  He reached for the cup, spinning it idly between his hands.

“So what about you?” Jean asked, sitting with his bare feet folded under him.  “And don’t even _try_ the ‘it’s my job to worry about _you’_ speech, you’ve been off all day.  Since Historia…” It was Marco’s turn to avoid eye contact, focusing on the tarry surface of his coffee.  “I...assume there’s a story there?”

“You could say that,” Marco whispered.  His fingers curled into the scabs again, beads of blood welling up from the fresh cracks.

“Want to talk about it?” Jean asked, and Marco looked up in surprise.  Jean shrugged awkwardly, shrinking back into some of his old sullenness.  “It’s what you’d say.”  The sentiment was sweet enough to make Marco smile in spite of himself.  

_He deserves to know,_ he thought.   _We’re in too deep...one way or another it affects him too..._ and Marco wondered, not for the first time, just who had decided he was ready to go back into the field.  

“It was the panic button,” he said with a sigh.  He picked up the coffee mug in both hands, for the warmth as much as anything.  “The alarm...it had some associations I wasn’t ready for.  It’s kind of a long story but...Historia, well she was still Krista Lenz back then, but she was my first protection detail.  Do you remember hearing about that big drug sting, a few years ago? The methamphetamine exporting?”

“What, Breaking Bad Chicago?  Yeah, I remember it being on the news a lot.”

“Well, Historia was supposed to be the star witness of that trial.  Her mom was a-a maid, a cleaning lady, but her father was the mover and shaker of that entire ring...he kind of kept her around, paid for her to go to school, that kind of stuff...and then Irvin Smith got wind of her and realized she could blow the lid off the whole thing.”

Jean didn’t say anything as Marco paused for breath, but he quietly climbed down off the kitchen counter and came to sit at the table.  

“Hey.” He reached out and poked the back of Marco’s hand with a fingertip.  “You’re bleeding.”  The unexpected sting of contact made him jump, splashing coffee over his hands, and for the first time he registered the stains spreading across the cuff of his shirt.  

“Ahh, crap…” Marco hastily rolled his sleeve back, and Jean tipped his chair back to grab a handful of paper towels.  “Old habits die hard,” he muttered, wrapping the tissues around his wrist to soak up the blood, and to hide the shiny infection scars on his arms, left over from too many cracked and pulled off scabs.

“So Krista was...what, witness protection?” If Jean noticed his scarred arms, he wasn’t showing it.  “You were her bodyguard too?”

Marco nodded. _And if I tell you what happened to her there’s a pretty damn good chance you’ll never trust me again._

“Me and Miri - Ymir’s her full name -  we were straight out of academy training, and Garrison picked us up to be her sweep team...that’s what Connie and Sasha are for you.”

He’d been delirious with excitement, he’d spent  his childhood in the Belgian embassy and never outgrown the dream of joining the Secret Service one day, and Garrison had a reputation for sending its agents wherever they wanted to go.  It was supposed to an easy detail; outside of Survey almost no one knew Krista existed.  All they had to do was look inconspicuous while she kept her head down until the trial.  That’s why they’d handed it to two rookies...and one unknown quantity…

“‘The head of our team was this ex-private security operative...Annie Leonhardt...she was a goddamned force of nature.  I mean she’s this _tiny_ little woman, didn’t even come up to my shoulder… and _beatiful,_ blonde hair and these _huge_ eyes and the best freaking poker face, she was like something out of a Bond movie.  But…”  Marco hesitated, feeling he was edging onto thin ice.  He hadn’t dredged up these memories since the endless tribunals that followed the shooting.  

“Annie...she was into something bad, and she was in deep.  She--” Marco gritted his teeth, the old smouldering fury bubbling in his gut.  “She sold us. All three of us, to the drug ring.  I-it...it was the middle of the night, pitch black, Annie called us all in and said we had to move Krista, there wasn’t time to tell us why...she had me and Miri out on a sweep while she stayed with Krista...and then all of a sudden her radio goes dead and Krista’s panic button just went _crazy--”_

He’d ripped his radio out of his ear to dull the shrieking of the alarm, renewed every second as Krista hammered on the button, Ymir’s voice cutting through the squeals wild with panic Annie was gone and hostiles were suddenly hitting her from every side--Annie’s employers sent out a five-man team, surely enough to kill or kidnap a frightened eighteen year old girl.  But not enough, as it turned out, to deal with Ymir.  

“I wonder, sometimes, if she didn’t try to protect us,” he told Jean.  “We weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Krista, we were supposed to be out of the way, but...the hit squad was so busy trying to handle Miri that I got to Krista the same time Annie did.”

There was no good way to describe the terror, try as he might...they’d been trapped in a blind alley, Krista pressed against the wall and gasping for breath.  She was no coward and she wouldn’t go down without a fight, but she was a teenaged girl up against against a lifelong brawler.  After a certain point it was all a blur in his mind, Krista on her knees with blood soaking her hair, yelling for Annie to tell him what to do the too long silence and the sudden evil gleam of the gun in her hand, the only point of reflection in the dark alley.   _I’m sorry,_ she’d whispered, _Annie, Annie what’s happening, what’s going on, Annie? Annie DON’T--_ his night vision blasted away by the firecracker flash of the muzzle, tried to breath and couldn’t there was nothing but the ripping pain and he didn’t realize he’d fallen until the blood splashed against his face, his or Krista’s there was no telling them apart anymore…

“I just froze,” he said at last, the words tasted bitter.  “I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t understand what was going on and I couldn’t get in the way in time...the bullet just sliced me, and it...it hit Historia in the spine.”

“I wondered why you did that…” Jean whispered.  Marco finally dared to look up again, only to find Jean staring down, and realized he’d unconsciously pressed his hand over the ugly scar in his side again.  “That’s where…?”

“That’s where she shot me,” Marco sighed and pulled his hand away, lacing his fingers together tightly.  “Old habit.  Listen, I’ll be honest, I owe you that...I was _really_ messed up for awhile...I...I’d slide into these guilt spirals and...I tore out my stitches, more than once, I wasn’t even aware I was doing it most of the time.  I was in and out of the hospital for a few months, and then my old supervisors found me a desk job with survey…” he shrugged helplessly.  “Which is where I was until September.”  

Jean sniffed quietly and rubbed his eyes with a sleeve, jolting Marco at least partway back to reality.  

“Sorry you asked?” he said, smiling weakly.  Jean shook his head vigorously.  

“ _No,_ nonono…” he swallowed hard.  “ _Shit_ Marco, I...thank you for telling me.”

Silence settled around them again, although it seemed less oppressive this time. Marco sipped at his lukewarm coffee.  And choked.  

“Holy _shit_ what is in this, battery acid?”

“Kerosene.” Jean grinned at him.  “I attempted to make the coffee of your people.”

“You succeeded,” Marco said hoarsely.  “I’ll never need to sleep again.”

“Risk board’s still where we left it.” Jean stood up and stretched until his shoulders popped.  “ _I_ vote we barricade the front door and stay in here playing Risk and arguing about _Lord of the Rings_ for the rest of our lives.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Jean’s eyes flew wide for a second, and then his expression softened again, flushing faintly.  He smiled at the ground and ducked out of the kitchen, leaving Marco alone.

Marco knew Jean had expected him to respond with something equally silly, trying trying to pull them back onto safer footing...but just for tonight, he wanted to be honest.  There was still too much he had go on hiding.

There was one more part to the story...one final image seared in his memory, that he’d kept back from Jean.  He’d never spoken about it in the tribunal investigations, knew it would be written off as guilt or trauma, trying to rationalize what had happened.

For whatever reason, no one had ever thought to ask how a crack shot like Annie Leonhardt had managed to _miss_ from barely ten feet away.  Two targets, one injured and helpless and the other too terrified to move, and she’d somehow failed to kill either one of them.  Never wondered why a consummate professional with a fully loaded gun would only fire one shot for two targets, why she would leave without ensuring a fatal wound.

It would have been easier if there _was_ an explanation, something that would just let him hate her for what she’d done, but... despite the darkness and the fear and the confusion, Marco had never been able to shake the certainty that just before she pulled the trigger, Annie Leonhardt had closed her eyes.

* * *

**When We Come Back…**

* * *

Jean and Marco return to the place where it all began!  What paths might start at the long abandoned Maria chemical plant?  Will there be answers, or only further mysteries?  When _Strings: A Serial Adventure Story_ returns, our heroes attempt to unravel the cause of a deadly explosion, and perhaps even find the thread that will lead them back to the center of the web...to the master who holds their **Puppetstrings!**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ever-wonderful Con-Affetto drew this beautiful work of art for me when Strings cracked 3,000 hits last week and it is just too hysterical not to share. No prizes for guessing what Jean is thinking about.
> 
> I get the impression Levi is judging him.


	7. Puppetstrings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PLOT HAS LANDED. I'm sorry for the wait guys, this one was a killer. It's also almost 5,000 words in an attempt to make up for said lateness. (It will probably be edited some over the next couple of days because right now it's 3 am and I frankly can't be assed). I hope you all enjoy!

File no. 51-104

TRANSCRIPT OF: Deposition Statement, Cpt. [SURNAME REDACTED BY REQUEST], Levi, Survey Intelligence Group.  Interviewing Agent: Maj. Nile Dawke, Federal Bureau of Investigation

SUBJECT MATTER PERTAINING TO: Trost Station incident (13 December 2013) and the ongoing investigation into the death of [REDACTED]

RECORDING BEGINS

_Please state your name for the record._

Levi.

_Your full name._

No.

_You are aware that you are currently under oath, Captain?_

I am aware.  I am also aware that you don’t have the security clearance to make me state my full name, Dawk.

_Security clearance._

Go look it up. I can wait.

 _You can rest assured I will._ After _this deposition._

//Aie du bon temps.//

_With all due respect to your heritage, this is a recorded deposition. Please refrain from responding in French._

// 好的. //

[Conversation ceases for 45 seconds]

[Audible sigh] _The purpose of this deposition is to establish the reasoning behind the questionable actions taken by Survey Intelligence Group in November of 2013.  You are familiar with the issues in question?_

I am.

_Please explain, insofar as you are able, the decision-making process that lead to Survey’s use of a civilian to acquire information not on the public record._

You’re asking the wrong questions, Nile.

_Enlighten me._

Didn’t you ever wonder why all that information wasn’t part of the public record to begin with?

_You are avoiding the question Captain.  The original trial is not the subject of--_

Of _course_ it is.  The Maria trial is everything, you _idiot._ There was a loophole in that investigation big enough to drive a train through.

_The Kirstein Corporation cooperated fully and willingly with every step of the investigation._

Yeah, that’s the loophole.  They cooperated.  OHSA had no warrant, the police had no warrant, _we_ had no warrant.  Sure they let us into their filing system to dig through all the blueprints and machinery specs and workflow diagrams...but the only thing we had to compare all that to was the inventory _they_ provided.  You get it?   _Because_ they cooperated, they could hide whatever they wanted, and we had no way of knowing what was missing...or…

_Or?_

...or what was _there_ that shouldn’t have been.

_We are here to discuss the actions of Survey preceding the Trost Station incident, Captain.  Do you consider the semantics of a five year old investigation to be of consequence to this deposition?_

Of _consequence?_ I don’t fucking know, it’s all...what if. What if we _hadn’t_ been hobbled five years ago?  What if _we_ found the blueprints first...there might be one less dead kid in the morgue. Do you consider that _of consequence?_

 

 

 

* * *

“Two fives and a four, say goodbye to Iceland.”

“ _Iceland shall never fall!”_

Jean glared at the single red soldier that was his last foothold in Europe, facing a battalion of banana-yellow cannons.  Ordinarily he was a pretty even match for Marco on the Risk board, but tonight he was hanging on by the grace of some stupidly lucky rolls. The dice bounced to a halt on the tabletop and Jean burst out laughing.

Marco yelped something filthy in French.   _“Are you fucking kidding me that’s four sixes in a row.”_

“All a part of my clever plot.”

“Your lone remaining piece must have one heck of a plan.”

“Shut up.”  

“Was that you conceding?” Marco asked, and Jean glared his assent.  

 _Asshole probably_ planned _this,_ he grumbled internally.   _Saving his sad puppy story ‘til he knows I’ve been up all night so he can wipe the floor with me..._ yeah, that sounded about right, he liked that version of events.  Marco unloaded all that stuff to throw him so he could win at Risk for once, nothing else... _did he really say he’d spend the rest of his life with me?_   

Everything about tonight felt off, unsurprisingly, both of them being slowly ground down by the pressure of maintaining the illusion of normalcy.  Every time Jean looked at Marco, he saw the traces of the hollow, futile anger, the way he’d gritted his teeth in pain just _before_ his nails broke his skin...all that anger and loathing, all of it directed inward, and hidden so completely when he smiled.

Jean glanced up at the clock; it was just after 9 am.  A normal sleep schedule was starting to feel like a relic of ancient times.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through the recent messages as Marco suddenly sat up straight and put a hand to his ear, listening to his radio.  Any minute now…

The door buzzer went off, shrill in the silent apartment. 9:06...Jean rolled his eyes.  That was almost _late_ for--

“Armin’s downstairs,” Marco said, getting up and stretching out his shoulders.  “Connie says he came by to check on you, wanna let him in?”

“Oh yeah, I asked him to come over today,” Jean said, hopping out of his chair and heading for the door.  “I have a present for you,” he added over his shoulder, just to see the look of confusion.  

Jean unbolted his front door and was almost knocked over by the hug.  

“ _Ohholyshit I thought you were dead!”_

“Ow. I’m not dead, but--” Jean peeled Armin off his neck with a wince “--you’re putting all your weight on my extremely sprained wrist.”

“Sorry!”  Armin jumped back, looking embarrassed,  and looked down at Jean’s bandaged wrist.  “Is that...is it from the fight? Or the fall…”

Jean sighed, heading back into the living room.  “Actually, that’s where Marco grabbed me.  The EMTs said I’m lucky he didn’t dislocate my shoulder.”

“ _I_ say you’re lucky you don’t have tire tracks on your face!” Marco yelled from the kitchen, and Armin winced.  He looked nearly as bad as the two of them, pale and strung-out, his eyes bloodshot and glassy.  

“You okay?” Jean asked, lowering his voice.  Armin shrugged, shoulders tight, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Just...just shaken up, I guess.  I don’t know.”  Jean put his good hand on his shoulder, only to have it roughly shaken off.  Armin pinched the bridge of his nose, hard, and then looked up with a smile Jean didn’t quite believe.  “ _Sorry_ not enough sleep.  I got you the thing for...for the thing.”

This time Jean put _both_ hands on his shoulders and steered him bodily into the kitchen.  “You, coffee.  Now.  He’s lost the ability to speak English,” he explained as Marco gave them a skeptical look.

“ _Ce n’est pas une problème, non? Il s’ameliore--”_

_“Shut up, Marco.”_

 

 

 

* * *

“All-access keycard you say,” Marco said, a few hours later, watching Jean turn the little plastic rectangle over between his fingers.  “You got this how?”

“ I used to work in this office, when I was in high school. Told Armin I need to get to my old work records for scholarship stuff. ”

“And he believed that?” Marco smirked, and Jean grinned sheepishy.

“I highly doubt it, but if someone yells at him he’s got a good reason for them.”

Marco pulled the generic blue Survey car into a space in the huge expanse of deserted parking lot, and the two sat in silence for a minute, looking up at the bulk of the empty factory in the distance.  Maria looked dead, Jean thought, the corpse of some defeated giant, hunched and black against the pale gray clouds.  Bent pipe and lopsided edges of concrete jutted out from the northern wall, metal intestines spilling from a wound.   _Doesn’t matter which direction I try to run...sooner or later Maria’s always there on the horizon, waiting to pull me down again._

“I didn’t know this place still got used,” Marco commented as they got out of the car.  There were snowflakes drifting on the wind whipping across the bare cornfields, stinging the skin and making the pavement slick underfoot.

“No-one actually works here anymore, but they just left the archives after the explosion.  It would’ve been a ton of stuff to relocate...plus I don’t think my dad wanted to risk moving it.  I’ve got a theory…”  Jean waved the featureless white card Armin had given him in front of the reader, and the door of the office building beeped twice and clicked open.

“You’re _sure_ this is legal?” Marco asked with a crooked smile, shaking snow out of his hair as they stepped inside.

Jean grinned, sticking the card back in his pocket and searching for a lightswitch.  “Well, Armin’s an office manager, so he can make cards for whoever he wants.  Plus, _you_ would need like eighteen different warrants to get in here--” he pulled a set of little silver keys off a pegboard near the door and headed for a filing cabinet, “--while _I_ am a thirty-five percent shareholder.”  He dragged out a fat green ledger, crispy with age and dust, and tossed it at his bodyguard.  “Making all of _this_ thirty-five percent _mine.”_

“What’s this?”

“Inventory for the blueprint archive. C’mon.”  Jean hopped over the desk in his way and headed for the double doors to the archives, feeling a vague sense of deja vu.  He must have walked back and forth up and down this hallway a thousand times as a teenager...when the office building was brightly lit and full of people, the air buzzing with conversations and the vibrations of the factory shaking the ground under his feet.

“The schematics for the area that exploded were evidence in the trial, right?  What was the archive number?”  

“I have no idea--” Jean started to scowl, and Marco cut him off.  “ _But_ I can look it up.”  He stuck the ledger awkwardly under one arm and fished his smartphone out of a coat pocket, fingers flashing over the screen.  Jean waved the illicit keycard at another sensor, and the automated doors swung back.

“Northwest, mixing and settling tanks, area 104, right?  Um...the archive number should be...J12 11-16ab how the _hell_ is that an archive number?”

Jean smiled, mirthlessly.  He felt...he didn’t know _what_ to call it.  Crazy, probably.   _Driven._ He was full of a prickling, insatiable energy, an unshakeable feeling that he was standing on the edge of a cliff he couldn’t see about to walk out over empty air, laughing all the way…

“I love it when I’m right,” he muttered.  

Marco burst out laughing, the bright sound echoing around the cavernous archive room.  It certainly served to take the edge off Jean’s internal monologue.

_“What.”_

_“_ Heehee, nothing,” Marco said, still giggling.  “You just sounded like...someone…”

Jean rolled his eyes and took off down the rows of eight-foot high pigeonhole shelving, counting mentally.  “I had a feeling the stuff submitted as evidence might be in J-12,” he said over his shoulder to Marco, trailing down the narrow aisle behind him.  “See, all these shelves are 26 X 50, because they’re meant to be labeled on a grid system, A-1, B-1...like battleship.”  He turned sharply, forcing Marco to backtrack into the aisle to keep up.  “Except, as you just noticed, the labeling system _here_ is fucking batshit.  Meaning...nine...ten...that you’re not too likely to notice...eleven...if there’s one more row past Z.  This is J-12.”

He watched Marco stare blankly at the tall block of pigeon holes, and _saw_ the moment the thought clicked: Marco frowned suddenly and stuck the ledger back under his arm, and began counting his way down one roll of pigeonholes, touching each little square cubicle.

“Twenty-seven.  There’s an extra column in this shelf.”

“ _Dingdingding,”_ Jean said, and Marco stifled another one of those inexplicable (and fucking _annoying)_ giggles.  “And yet, you’ll notice, it’s exactly the same size as all the others.   _Because,_ ” he grabbed the end of a cardboard tube and tugged it loose, its sides sticking in the narrow cube, “every hole is just a _little_ bit narrower.  I’d worked back here for two years before I realized why J12’s were always a bitch to get out, it’s no wonder the cops couldn’t find anything.”

He popped the cap out of the poster tube and they rolled the blueprint out on the grimy floor, kneeling on the edges to keep it flat.  Marco pulled out his phone again, flicking through tiny pdfs of the original case file.  “It matches the one on file,” he said with a shrug.  “What’re all these numbers?”

“Employee IDs,” Jean said, squinting at the tiny print.  “Easier than trying to read names that small.  There’s another ledger that lists ‘em all somewhere.”  He got back to his feet, knees coated in dust, and started pulling out tubes around the empty hole, glaring at the archive numbers stamped on their sides.  “Well this is weird.”  He threw the tube to Marco: there was a red blob on one side, as though a number had been stamped on and then smeared.  “That one doesn’t have a number...and yet nothing around here seems to be missing.  More inconsistencies, see?”

He peeled off his coat and started systematically pulling out every blueprint tube, one at a time, wedging his toes into pigeonholes and climbing up the shelf like a ladder to get to the rows he couldn’t reach.  A few minutes of searching produced a dozen more tubes with smeared, illegible labels, and a few French insults when the dropped tubes hit Marco in the head.  

“ _Jean,”_ Marco whispered suddenly.  Jean looked around; Marco had used the French pronunciation of his name, like his parents did...he hadn’t done that since the first few days after they’d been together, not since he’d heard Jean’s friends using the decidedly American version, Jean like the pants…

“ _Get down here,_ this is it!”

Jean scrambled gracelessly to the floor and dropped to his knees, peering over Marco’s shoulder, and swore viciously.

There were the familiar lines of the outer walls, the north wall that had been blown into deadly shrapnel, the big geometric shapes designating the chemical equipment and the four-digit ID numbers at stations across the factory floor...but among the ID numbers were different designations, sparser and spread thinner.  Just initials, a pair of two capital letters.  And closest to the north wall, in a rough triangle around a huge catalyst induction vat…

**RB--BH--AL**

Jean and Marco stared at one another for an endless, shocked moment, and then they both scrambled for the rest of the unlabeled blueprints.  Every one of them had more initials, scattered seemingly at random through every part of the factory.

“What _are_ they?” Marco wondered aloud, flicking through the official blueprints on his phone again.  “They _can’t_ be people, how could you employ this many people off the record?”

“It’s not just the letters…” Jean called from the far end of the aisle.  He’d spread the two northwest corner maps out,  side by side.  “The equipment’s in different places, there’s stuff missing, or wired differently...there’s no way you could tell in the actual factory without a tape measure!  And the dates...hey, what’s the date on that one?”

“Just a year, on all of ‘em...1999. Wait...wasn’t this place--”

“Built in 1985?” Jean ground his teeth together. “Why yes it was.”

“So these can’t be planning documents...what’s special about 1999?”

Jean sat back on his heels and ran his hands through his dusty hair, feeling his fingers shake.  “That’s the year Maria suddenly went from barely squeaking by and failing every quota they had to record output.  In three months.” _Dad...what did you do..._ the excitement was rapidly being overwhelmed by stomach churning guilt.  He thought of all that money held in trust, for _him..._

“Hey,” Marco said quietly.  Jean could feel his eyes on him and couldn’t bring himself to look up, staring at his hands clenched on his knees.  He heard Marco get up and pick his way carefully through the minefield of blueprints on the floor.  “Don’t you _dare_ start blaming yourself for this.”

Jean wiped the back of his sleeve across his eyes.   _I’m not going to cry, not again, not this time, I’m sick of being scared and sad and I want to be fucking_ angry _for a change..._  “I _want_ to say I just didn’t know, but...that doesn’t really hold water, does it?  I just can’t help wondering...h-how many people…” his voice caught, and the rest of the sentence came out as a snarl. “How many deaths am I taking advantage of?”

“I never said you were completely innocent.”  Jean looked up at that, ready to snap something nasty, and Marco knelt down and put a hand on his shoulder.  “Jean, listen to me, ok?  Look, I know how helpless you feel...believe me, I _know..._ but have to realize, every battle we’ve won...it’s all because of you.  Someone’s tried to kill you and we’re about to turn around and break them with everything they used against you.” His hand shifted, just a fraction, and his thumb brushed against the skin of Jean’s neck.  Their eyes met, and Marco smiled.  “If you feel tied to those deaths...how about we do something about it?”  He stood up and held out his hand.

Jean gritted his teeth, and took it.  He looked over Marco’s shoulder at the damning blueprints behind him.  “How much of this do we need?”

Marco’s smile took on a hard edge as he pulled Jean up. “Everything we can carry.”

 

 

 

* * *

It was easy enough to make an excuse to leave Jean to Connie and Sasha and once more make the trek from Jean’s apartment to the Survey building.  A part of Marco’s brain was on fire with excitement and hope - _surely_ this would give Irvin Smith what he wanted, surely this would make him just a bodyguard (free to resign, and...and to…)

But something was nagging at him, and he couldn’t quite shake it.   _Inconsistencies,_ Jean had said, inconsistencies everywhere...and not just at the Kirstein Co. building.  There was that stupid conversation with Armin Artlet that morning, still rattling around his head…

_“You okay?” he’d asked, when Jean had left the kitchen for some reason or other.  The kid was slumped at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the tabletop and chewing on his lower lip._

_Armin shook his head, hesitantly.  “I wanted to ask you something,” he said eventually, not looking up.  “This...situation Jean’s in...it doesn’t make sense to me.  He told me about the photos, and...I mean if they wanted to kidnap him why would they attack him like that? Even if it was just a scare he almost died! A-and...why even make threats in the first place?  If they have this big secret why not just reveal it, the media would eat it up!  Why send threats so they go to the police instead of just snatching him off the street?  It just...it just all smells wrong, I don’t understand it...I can’t figure out what they’re doing and it_ scares _me.”_

_“You know...the worst thing Hollywood ever did was convince everyone that every crime is planned by an evil genius,” Marco had told him with a smile.  “There’s a pretty obvious reason nothing they’re doing makes sense.  Our kidnappers are probably fucking idiots.”_

Armin’s response to that had been...strange, although he could hardly be blamed for that.  Just for a second, his eyebrows had snapped together in a scowl that looked out of place on his gentle face, he’d looked...angry, maybe...but then he’d laughed and seemed to relax, and Marco had tried to put it out of his mind.

And yet...he had a point.  He’d written off a lot of his own doubts - the cryptic messages, the strange timing, even the sheer _pointlessness_ of threatening to kidnap someone (ensuring it would instantly get very hard to kidnap that person) - as inexperience and bad planning, but the more he thought about it the less that idea held water.

The timing of the threats screamed inexperience, but the same people had managed to track Jean to the library, snap a picture, and deliver it to an office no one knew he was going to within a twenty minute window.   _That_ was an expert operator. They had information on Jean that _Survey_ couldn’t dig up with full access to the kid’s entire life, and then they wasted it on weird riddles...almost like they had enough information to scare someone, but not enough to actually go public...once again Marco had that queasy feeling that someone knew something he didn’t, and that meant it was time to abuse his powers again.

 

His old desk in the Survey building was still empty, and that made him smile.  Scuttlebutt had it that Zoe had been violently resisting all attempts to assign her a new researcher...which meant that all his passwords were still active.  Marco glanced around the office - there were still plenty of people around, but he sat down and booted up the computer regardless.  After all, there was no reason he _shouldn’t_ be allowed back on the network...other than what he was about to do.

The _other_ grand crime of Hollywood movies, as far as Marco was concerned, was depicting hacking as a tense, time-sensitive process full of progress bars and frantic keyboard hammering and zooming lines of code.  He tilted his chair back on two legs and sipped his coffee (Starbucks - Jean’s attempt at Survey coffee had left him feeling like there were holes in his stomach) while he waited for the dime-a-dozen Dell to chug its way onto the Survey network.  Once it finally connected, a small ice-age later, he clicked his way through a maze of files and archives to the huge database file that housed the entire Kirstein Co operation, starting from Maria five years ago.

About half the files were marked with little blue padlocks - security clearance required.  That was fine, there were ways around that.  You could _call_ it hacking, but in reality, ninety percent of hacking was knowing that people were lazy.  At least eight of the remaining ten percent was knowing how to use it.

Marco right-clicked the search bar, and selected “Recently Viewed.”

The first file in the list was the evidence dossier from the Maria trial, with a little “remote access” tag; that had been him, on his phone in the archives.  A few email copies, mostly scheduling changes following Connie and Sasha’s reassignment, more trial documentation, somebody doing a fact check, and...well _that_ was interesting.

Buried in the middle of all the trial pdfs was a padlock icon, something out of Marco’s league...he couldn’t even see what file type it was.  But he could see the point of origin: it was some sort of report from the Chicago PD. He brought up the file properties, unblocked by the security lock; almost a year old.  What was an old CPD file doing in the recently viewed column, with such a high clearance on it?  Marco looked at the author (and author in the properties meant Word doc...not an official release?) and his eyebrows jumped.   _Zachar M._ Mike Zacharius.  He was a CPD detective, and an old buddy of Irvin’s…

Marco right-clicked the icon again and selected “open with” and then “Adobe Acrobat.” The mouse cursor whirled blue for a few minutes, and then a new window popped up - the word document, successfully converted in a brand new (and unsecured) file.  Marco afforded himself a mental high-five.

The document turned out to be disappointingly short, only a few hundred words.   _Evidence check-in,_ Marco realized. Lame.  But then why was it in the Kirstein archive, and as a _.doc…_

 _Item recovered,_ he read, _ledger labeled Kirstein Chemical Corporation, no company file number or further titles. Green covers pagination consisting of_ blah blah blah... _entries consisting of two-letter abbreviations and sums of money_ and the screen now had Marco’s full attention.  

_Anomaly, page 37 (see fig 1 below) two sets of letters [RB; BH] circled in red ink with notation “NO REMAINS PRESUMED DEAD” and a third set [AL] underlined with notation “MISSING TO BE LOCATED.” Photo labeled “AL/Security” found between following pages (see fig 2)._

There was a break, and then a brief note in a different font.   _Hey Smithy, guess what my uniforms found under the seat in a secure vehicle we rented to Kirstein Co? We’re logging the book and returning it, nobody knows its evidence but you. Take a look at fig. 2, I think she’s a friend of yours.  whole thing smells like a chemical plant._

Fig. 2...Marco scrolled down and his coffee cup hit the floor with a _pop,_ cardboard crumpling and hot liquid splashing across the carpet.  Fig 2 looked like a driver’s licence photo, or some kind of ID _._ Marco felt his teeth grind together as Annie Leonhardt’s wide blue eyes stared at him impassively from the screen.   _AL...Security...and where did Irvin think that meth operation was getting its precursors?_

Son of a bitch.

Audio started playing quietly from the cheap computer’s speakers, and Marco jumped and frowned.  He must have accidentally hit a hotkey and opened something when he started, there was a video player in the corner of the screen...he looked back at the file library.  The file under Zacharius’ evidence dossier _was_ some kind of video clip...origin _Hanji Zoe?_ It was a security cam, one of the little fly-on-the-wall lenses in most of the higher-up offices, there to record conversations that might need to be referenced later.  

And then he heard his name.

Marco froze solid for a minute, and then he fullscreened the video and rewound it.  He was looking down at a grainy, fisheye version of Irvin Smith’s office, the commander at his desk staring at the computer screen when Captain Levi blew through the door.  What the hell was this doing flagged for the Kirstein archive?  Then Levi began to speak, his voice distorted by the poor quality.

“Hey, we’ve got your plant.”

“My what?”

“You know, your fly on the wall. For the Kirstein thing.”

Marco’s stomach dropped all the way to the floor.  Already knowing what he was going to find, he opened a command box and typed one line.

_TIMESTAMP >view = ON_

Little yellow numbers appeared in a bottom corner of the video, and queasy apprehension turned to stone cold fury.  It felt like the blood was freezing in his veins as the recorded conversation droned on.

Cryptic threats, as though the person making them had _some_ information, but not enough.  

A year old piece of illegally obtained, inadmissible evidence...the origin of **RB--BH--AL.**  

A picture tying Annie Leonhardt inextricably to Kirstein co.

And now...he looked back at the blinking yellow date, willing the numbers to change.

A video clip of Irvin and Levi selecting _him_ to be Jean’s bodyguard…

...six months before the kidnapping threats were made.

 

 

 

* * *

**The Plot Thickens!**

 

 

 

* * *

The hope of new answers leads only to despair as more and more questions arise!  When _Strings: A Serial Adventure Story_ returns, our hero puts his life on the line to confront the man who lead him astray...but destiny may yet have other designs for him!  How do you defeat an enemy who’s always **Twelve Steps Ahead?**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess what?? I got accepted into grad school! (Master's degree in wildlife ecology, since you asked XD) Of course this means I am about to embark on an epic journey to move my entire life and all associated stuff from Iowa to Oklahoma...what I'm saying is I have no IDEA how often I'll have time to update. (This also has a lot to do with this chapter taking almost a month.) But I promise you, there WILL be updates. This fic will never be abandoned, even if it means my thesis is a year late! 
> 
> <3 <3 <3 Kenji


	8. Twelve Steps Ahead

When he was eight years old, Marco had fallen through the ice at the edge of a frozen pond.  The water had only been a few inches deeper than his head and he’d been able to flounder his way out, but most of twenty years later it was the only thing he’d experienced that came _close_ to how he felt now.  Sitting at his old desk with the familiar broken springs of the chair poking his back, he heard the sick groan of rotten ice, way down in the depths of his memories, before the freezing blackness snatched his breath away.

The fury felt like a solid _thing,_ it hit with a force like a cannonball and spread out through his veins, too deep to strike out for the sunlight at the surface...no choice but to drown.

He closed his eyes, trying to string his thoughts together, through the cold...he was barely skipping around the edges of the security system, if he tried to print anything or copy files it would probably catch and lock him out.  Then again...what did he need copies to prove? If everyone knew but him…

“You didn’t even come say hi?  I’m wounded.”  Marco turned his head to find Zoe leaning against the cubicle divider, grinning at him and twirling a USB keychain around one finger.  “No-one logs on to _my_ network without me knowing.  You could’ve just _asked.”_

Marco met her eyes, and watched her expression flicker and freeze when she saw his face.

“When were you going to tell me?”  he whispered, a sigh turned into a cracked laugh.  “ _Were_ you going to tell me?”

“How did you get that?” Zoe whispered, staring at Annie Leonhardt’s pixelated face.  

Marco leaned his chair back, springs groaning, and covered his face with his hands.  “ _AL,_ Annie fucking Leonhardt,” he said, more to himself than to her.  “Pull me off my desk and stick me out in the open next to the heir of the Kirstein corporation…”

“ _Marco--”_ Zoe said, her eyes were full of tears behind her glasses.  

“How desperate _is_ Irvin getting...this is all you had, isn’t it, RB-BH-AL?  He had to know Alek Kirstein would never crack for something that vague.  And you couldn’t just make the threats and _hope_ he’d believe you had something else.”  

Marco smiled, bright and half-crazy, some fragment of his mind was watching his actions with terror but he was too caught up in the cold to stop.  “And here I thought it was _Jean_ you were hanging out as bait...but it was never about him, was it?   It was _me,_ it was always me.” He laughed again, into his hands, a faint sing-song tone creeping into his voice. “Irvin thought she’d come out of hiding and finish the job.”

Zoe, for the first time in his memory, just looked away.  She shook her head, jerkily, tears trailing down her cheeks.  “No, n-no, Marco, that’s not--”

“Were you the one who took the pictures?” he asked, pushing his chair back too hard and standing.  “Or was it someone else, using your tech while I was in your office, freaking out because _the bleeding wouldn’t stop--”_

“I took the pictures.”  The cool words cut Marco off as his voice started to rise.  Levi stepped between the cubicle dividers to stand beside Zoe.  “With a fifty dollar point-and-shoot.  We ran it through a couple photoshop filters to make ‘em look like scope shots.”  The captain’s eyes flicked from Marco to Zoe, swiping the tears from her cheeks, and he reached over and took her hand.  The brief touch seemed to carry all the weight of a full conversation between the two of them; after an instant Zoe nodded and squeezed his hand, and ducked back around the corner.

Levi didn’t watch her go, keeping his gaze on Marco.  “You’re going to be late for your appointment with the commander.”

Marco met his eyes.  He was used to being able to read expressions, but Levi’s slate-blue stare might as well have been a concrete wall.  But he looked tired, and as some of the anger started to ebb Marco realized he didn’t have the faintest idea how _old_ Levi was, or how long he’d been a soldier.

Levi moved to the hall and jerked his head impatiently, and Marco followed, pausing to grab the cardboard tube leaning against his desk.

“She’s been home twice in the last two weeks,” Levi said softly.  “She won’t let anyone else run backup for you, she wouldn’t take help when we gave you Connie and Sasha...she’s doing it all herself.”  He stopped as they drew level with the commander’s office and leaned against the wall, wincing faintly as he shifted to take the weight off his right leg.  “And you still think she doesn’t care.”

This time it was Marco who looked away, guilt burning off the edges of the righteous anger.  “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”  Levi closed his eyes, and the shadows on his sharp features deepened for a moment.

“There was some doubt as to how you’d react,” he said eventually, and Marco’s hand pressed against the bullet wound, the sting of pain half real and half remembered.  “We were wrong...”  He sighed heavily.  “And I’m sorry.”

The oppressive silence that followed was broken by the door opening beside him.  “Marco,” Irvin said.  He exchanged a brief nod with his captain over Marco’s head, and gestured the younger man through the door.

 

“You realize I could have you arrested for that little stunt,” Irvin said, returning to his desk.  

“I suppose you could. Sir.”  After some internal debate, Marco decided to stand to attention, the blueprint tube in one hand behind his back. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.  

“I didn’t tell you about Annie --and before you ask, yes, _I_ gave that order-- because I couldn’t have you distracted,” Irvin said, bluntly.  “You _are_ his bodyguard, Marco.  Jean had to be your first priority.”

“So I could pump him for the information you couldn’t get legally,” Marco replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.  Irvin sighed, leaning back in his worn-out leather chair.   _“_ And as long as I was somewhere Annie Leonhardt might be watching,” Marco finished.  Irvin looked up at that, and gave him a faint, unnerving smile.

“You can’t deny it worked.”

Marco stared at him, blood boiling in his veins, and the realization clicked like a shotgun shell.

“The second threat wasn’t you, was it?   _Twenty percent,_ you didn’t have a clue what that meant.  The second threat was _Annie.”_

Irvin’s grin got a few molars wider.  “No one hates Alek Kirstein quite like the people who worked for him.”  

“Except maybe his son,” Marco said softly.  He stepped closer to the desk, and met the commander’s eyes.  “Take Jean off the board.  He’s not a part of this -- I want him out.  I want him _safe._ ”

“Hannes warned us this might happen,” Irvin said to the ceiling, almost conversationally.  “He said you got attached easily...you have a tendency to adopt strays, lose your ability to be objective.”  He sighed.  “And that was fine by me, as long as the stray puppy liked _you…”_

Marco saw red.   _Be objective?  It should have been my job to die for him, you made it my job to put him in danger, you made it my job to watch him die in front of me.  He’s a kid in pain, he hates everything about himself and you saw a fucking chess piece, a_ stray puppy _who’d do tricks if you promised not to kick him as an award,_ the ice groaning in his memory splitting apart under his feet and this time there’d be no end to the cold.  How could he begin to explain the feeling...two years lost in the fog and then he’d opened his eyes and there was Jean Kirstein, trapped and scared and powerless in every way, still struggling against the odds with everything had and somehow that was reason enough to stand and fight again...reason enough to go on living.

 _As long as the stray puppy liked_ you... _he didn’t_ like _me, you_ bastard, _he trusted me._ _He fell in_ love _with me, and that’s just another tool to you--_

He wasn’t even aware he’d moved until his hands slammed onto the edge of Irvin’s desk with the too-familiar sting of scabs cracking open.

“I _said_ I want him _safe!”_ Marco snarled.  He held out the blueprint at arm’s length and dropped it on the desk.  “Courtesy of Jean Kirstein,” he said.  “It’s completely legal.  Consider it my letter of resignation.  He is _out_ of this game, and you aren’t _ever going to touch him again.”_

He was most of the way out of the door before Irvin Smith spoke, his voice barely audible and utterly emotionless.

“You were so kind, when I first met you...you practically had stars in your eyes  Where’s that sweet little empath now?”

Marco shut his eyes, and leaned his forehead against the doorframe, broken scabs pulling as his fists clenched.

“Annie Leonhardt shot him to death in an alley.”

 

* * *

**What Comes Next?**

 

* * *

Everything may be changing, fragile as ice on a spring day.  For everything gone forever, something else will endure.  Two young men may walk different paths, but they will always be bound by fate...by a **Red Thread.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> However mad you guys may get at me for this chapter, I guarantee you Marco is madder. Ch 9 should be up sometime next week, assuming he ever speaks to me again.
> 
> Not much to report, other than I'm now tagging tumblr stuff related to this fic as fic:strings so my updates don't get mixed in with artsy pictures of violins and cellos. (It's actually a very pretty place, the Strings tag, I kinda recommend it.)


	9. Red Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If there's an advantage to realizing that the chapter you spent two weeks writing needs to be split, it's three day turn arounds.)

After Marco had gone, Levi slipped through the half-open office door with two mugs of coffee.  He eschewed the scattering of mismatched office chairs and sat silently on the edge of Irvin’s desk.  The commander glanced up at him, and then went back to fiddling with the roll of blueprints on his desk.

“You win,” he said dully.  Levi winced.

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“We’ve lost him for good, haven’t we,” Irvin said.  It wasn’t a question.  He rolled open one of Marco’s blueprints and stared at the diagrams, not really seeing them.

Levi shrugged. “Yes and no, I suppose.” The too-hot coffee scalded his tongue, but he kept drinking anyway.  “He’ll never do anything for _us_ again, no doubt...but he’ll do it for Jean.  It’s just a matter of how far you think--”  he became aware that his musings were falling on deaf ears, a slightly crazed smile splitting through the commander’s expression.

“Oi!” Levi snapped his fingers an inch from Irvin’s nose.  “Why are old fucking blueprints suddenly hilarious, you’ve seen those a thousand times.”

“Not this version.” Irvin tossed the brittle sheet of paper at him and jumped to his feet, suddenly full of energy.  

“Version…” Levi shot him a suspicious glare and hopped off the desk so he could spread the blueprint out where he’d been sitting.  Irvin dragged an overstuffed file out of a cabinet in the corner and started flicking through it, tossing anything irrelevant to the floor.  Levi twitched, but managed to tune out the growing mess and focus on the blueprint.  

“ _This is altered,”_ he whispered, and Irvin laughed.  Levi flipped the print over and stared at the stamp dating the document to 1999.  “It’s falsified evidence…” his head snapped up to stare at Irvin, eyes wide.  “That’s probable cause, that’s probable _fucking_ cause-”

“How many warrants do you want?”

Levi flopped limply into Irvin’s chair.  “Those shitheads...They just handed us Kirstein Co. on a silver platter.”

“Get your team together.” Irvin planted a foot on the side of the chair and rolled him out of the way, thumbing through the contacts on his phone.  “I’m making phone calls.”

Levi glanced at the clock and raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to call a judge at eleven on a Saturday night?”  Irvin flicked a business card at him without answering.  Levi read the name and rolled his eyes.  “You’re going to call _Pixis_ at elven on a Saturday night?”

“He doesn’t have to be sober, he just has to sign the form.”

Levi laughed. “Stop _smiling._  You look like a fuckin’ psychopath.”

“That was the first thing you ever said to me! Aww, are you feeling romantic?”

“Feeling romant-- _you were holding a gun to my head, you asshole!”_

“Oh you wanna start that? Don’t think I’ve forgotten what _you_ were aiming at--”  Irvin ducked as the empty blueprint tube came flying at his head, grinning, and then sighed and looked at his captain with a more serious expression.  “Sun’s up at six.  Can you be ready by then?”

“ _Please._ Give me an hour.”

“I’m serious Levi.  We’re only going to get one shot at this...if we’re too slow Kirstein’s gonna dump everything in the lake and we’ll never touch him.  He’s planned for this.”

Levi folded his arms.  “You want me to believe you haven’t? I’m surprised you haven’t come in your pants by now.”

A ghost of the commander’s crazy smile returned.  “Gear up, Captan.  We’re going to hit every Kirstein facility in this state before the sun rises.”

Levi rolled his eyes, and then returned the smile.  “Call the judge.”

 

 

* * *

Sasha and Connie were called in a few minutes after midnight.  Marco was dully unsurprised to learn he wouldn’t be going on Levi’s raid...and of course it was because ‘Jean had to be his priority.’  He almost wished he had the energy left to be angry at that.  

“What’s the official story?” he asked Sasha, sitting in the stairwell of Jean’s apartment, watching her check the velcro straps on a Kevlar vest.

“Garrison suspects the kidnapping threats originated from current or former Kirstein Co employees with close ties to the company.” Sasha smirked at him and pulled her lavender sweater back over her head.  “Think he’ll go for it?”  Marco snorted.  

“You’re suggesting it’s plausible that Alek Kirstein’s employees absolutely hate his guts? _Noooo…”_

He leaned back against the doorframe, half-listening to Jean’s indistinct voice on the other side as Sasha checked the various weapons hidden under her skirt.  “That’s the version of events he’s getting from his dad, right?”  

Sasha nodded distractedly, adjusting a thigh holster.  She made one last pass through the equipment case next to her, and tossed a generic-looking phone his way.  “It’s set up to get all the official updates,” she said as Marco stuck it in an inner pocket of his (new) suit jacket.  Sasha seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said,  “It’s still your detail, you know.  Your call on how much you tell him.”

Marco looked down, biting his lip.  He’d been running variants of that particular conversation around his mind for days, and none of them developed into something he could stomach.   _Hey, I know you trusted me against your better judgement, sorry I’ve been using you as a means to an end like just about everyone else in your life…_

_and I hope that’s not a dealbreaker, because I...I think I love you too…_

“Hey.” Sasha kicked him in the ankle companionably.  “We’re leaving, you better get back inside.”  She held out a hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Be careful,” Marco said, squeezing her arm as she pulled him up.  

“You too.”

 

“I am never answering my phone again,” Jean grumbled to the apartment at large.  “I will never answer any phone again.  I shall flee to the wilds of Iowa where cellphones are grounds for witch burning to live a simple existence among the raccoons.”

“I’m...pretty sure Iowa gets cell service.”  

“ _Witch burnings I tell you.”_

“So is it the raccoons burning the witches, or--”

“ _Shut up, Marco.”_

“What are you _actually_ freaking out about?” Marco asked, watching him pace around the living room.  It was rapidly approaching six in the morning, the cold winter sky beginning to take on that eerie pre-dawn blueness, and Jean had scarcely stopped moving for a minute the entire night, bouncing around his apartment like a bead in a rattle.  

Jean heaved a sigh and collapsed backward onto the couch in an explosion of creaking. “You mean _besides_ having to talk to my dad all day?” He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. “I love it when he has to do the loving father act, you can practically hear his homophobic little mind overheating.”

“I’d noticed,” Marco said, sitting on the other end of the couch.  Jean rolled his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.  “What was the line, _working to ensure the best possible outcome?”_ Jean made a disgusted affirmative noise.  “It has been my experience that most fathers don’t talk about their kids like stock options after getting half a dozen kidnapping threats in the mail,” Marco explained dryly.  

“He tries,” Jean muttered.  “Mostly ‘cause if he stops trying Mom’s gonna sell the _CEO disowns gay son_ story to every outlet on the planet.”  He paused and seemed to think for a few seconds.  “Which, admittedly, would be hilarious.”

“I need to meet your mom.”

“You _really_ do.”  

Marco laughed, watching with relief as Jean seemed to relax slightly.  Maybe his hope that he might get to _sleep_ tonight wasn’t too terribly unfounded.  

“Shouldn’t we have heard something by now? They left at midnight.” Jean hunched forward, toying with the fringe of the old blanket slung over the couch.  “I mean…” he glanced towards Marco, skittish movements betraying his nervousness.  “You aren’t wearing a radio...how’re you going to know if...i-if something went wrong?”

Marco shut his eyes and nearly laughed. “Is _that_ what’s got you so worked up?” he asked, tilting his head so he could see Jean’s face.  

Jean’s shoulders slumped, and he turned away.  “I just can’t take anyone else getting hurt for my sake.  Connie and Sasha...if something happens to them...” he whispered, looking out at the slowly lightening sky, and Marco’s heart twisted painfully.

 _I could tell you,_ he thought... _the most dangerous thing they’re likely to run across tonight is a belligerent night watchman with a cheap taser.  There’s no armed ring of kidnappers, just a bunch of mostly empty offices.  There’s only one person caught up in all this who’s actually dangerous, and she’s only a threat to you…_

_...while you’re with me…_

“You don’t need to worry,” Marco said.  “They’re Levi’s squad.   _The_ Levi squad, this is nothing they can’t handle,” and that was almost truth, at least.

_She’s only dangerous if you’re with me, but I’m a selfish bastard and I just can’t let you go, Jean Kirstein…_

Jean didn’t answer, hiding behind his hands again.  He did that when he was uncertain, or conflicted, unable to control his emotions because he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

“Tell me something,” Marco asked, sliding closer without really thinking about it.  “Have you _ever_ actually been afraid for your _own_ sake.”  

Jean made a shaky noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.  “Every goddamned second.”  But he shook his head and lowered his hands from his face, fingers  brushing Marco’s as he let his hands drop to the cushions.  Both of them glanced down at the split second contact, but neither one pulled away.  After a second Jean shifted slightly, letting his fingers slide over Marco’s so casually it could almost have been accidental.

A cell phone buzzed. They both groaned.

“You or me?” Jean grumbled.  

“It’s not me,” Marco said, looking at his silent smartphone, and Jean groaned and pulled his own phone out of his pocket, punching the silent button without looking at the screen.

The buzzing continued.  

They stared at each other in confusion for a long, mute second, and then Marco swore and jumped over the back of the couch, heading for his jacket lying abandoned on the kitchen table with the little Survey network phone buzzing inside.

 

Jean’s phone began to ring again.  “If this is my fucking Dad _again_ I’m gonna--”

“Jean.”  Marco cut him off, voice barely a whisper.  “I think you should answer it.”

Jean looked wordlessly from Marco’s blank expression to the phone in his bodyguard’s hand, and answered the call.

“Dad? What happened--”

Marco barely heard his voice, staring down at the terse words glowing on the little screen in his palm.

COMPROMISED  MISSION CONCLUDED SUCCESS TBD

Compromised...if Survey’s cover was compromised, that meant some part of the kidnapping story was blown.  The cover story was being dispensed with...and here and now, what that meant was--

“They found him?  The gunman, who took all those pictures?  It was just _one person?”_  Marco looked up at Jean, just a dark silhouette against the sunrise in the window.

“No, _no,_ Dad, I understand.   _I understand.”_ Some edge of emotion broke through in his voice, and Marco’s skin tingled.  

The mission was over.  Survey had what they wanted from the raid, they were compromising their _own_ story...

And Jean was safe.  He was off the board.  Irvin had decided to accept Marco’s ultimatum.

It took Jean a few tries to end the call with shaky fingers, and then he turned, slowly, eyes wide against the shadows on his dark skin.

“They caught him?”

 _Not exactly,_ Marco thought, but it hardly mattered, the pure relief in Jean’s voice hit in the center of his chest and he couldn’t have stopped the smile for anything.

“It’s over,” he said, with finality, he could _see_ the weight lifting from the kid’s shoulders, he smiled, _really_ smiled, so rarely and every time it was more infuriatingly beautiful than the last.

“So,” Jean said, with that crazy grin on his face lighting up his eyes.  “I guess this means you’re fired.”

Marco laughed.  “Yeah, you’re finally through having to deal with me.  I’m not your bodyguard anymore--”

The phrase hung in the air the moment it left his lips, drawing out the silence as they stood on opposite sides of the room lighting up with early sunlight, eyes locked, breath gone and both of them afraid to break the moment.

Jean dropped his phone with a curse and practically dove into Marco’s arms.  

Marco grabbed him by the waist and for a second he was keeping balance for both of them, heat firing under his skin as Jean kissed him.  He managed, with an effort, to get his feet under him and stumbled back, pulling Jean with him ‘til he could lean against the wall, head spinning and already dizzy from the heat.

“I’m--I’m not--crazy--right?” Jean gasped against his lips, and Marco briefly wondered if he should stop kissing him between every word before dismissing the idea as stupid.  “This is real, this is really happening--mmm--”  he broke off with a hum, fingers fumbling with the buttons of Marco’s shirt.  Marco noticed with some relief that he was trembling; at least he wasn’t the only one half crazy with nerves and adrenaline...Jean had broken away from his lips and was kissing down his neck, felt like it was leaving trails of heat on his skin and his fingers clenched unconsciously at Jean’s waist, he could feel his muscles flex with every increasingly rapid breath--

Jean shifted, letting his thigh slip between Marco’s legs and Marco briefly forgot how to breath.  He felt Jean smile against his shoulder.

“Been a while, huh?”  

Marco gulped audibly, some of the sweat turning clammy.   _This_ was a conversation he should have seen coming. “You could say that. I...uh...d-don’t have much experience in this area…”

Jean suddenly went extremely still.  “When you say not much…”

“I’ve um.  Fooled around…”

Jean leaned back (although he left his arms draped around Marco’s shoulders.) “So exactly _how_ little experience are we talking here?”

Marco tipped his head back and covered his eyes with his hands.  “As soon as you take your pants off I’m in uncharted territory.”

“...and you’re _how_ old?”

“Twenty-six...oh stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?”

“The-the-the...horrified pity look you’ve got going on... _the opportunity never arose, okay?”_

“Yeah but _twenty-six?”_

Marco heaved a sigh, still staring up at the ceiling. “Look, it goes like this.  The first half of my life, I was so wrapped up... _chasin’_ a rainbow I never bothered to slow down for anything else.  And the last two years I was too busy hating myself to let anyone get _near_ me.”  He looked down at Jean and shrugged helplessly.  “And then I met _you._ ”

Jean didn’t say anything, looking up at Marco with the early sunlight catching in his eyes, turning them from the usual brown to something approaching gold.  His long fingers slid around Marco’s neck and into his hair, and he leaned in close and kissed him, so gently that at first he barely felt it.  One of Marco’s arms settled around his waist and he cupped his other hand against Jean’s face without really thinking about it, feeling the tension in the planes of his sharp features.  Marco’s eyelids fluttered shut, lashes catching against the thumb pressed to the corner of his eye and his breath caught as Jean’s tongue brushed against his lips, tilting his head and tightening his fingers to pull him closer even though they were already pressed together from chest to hips--

A cell phone buzzed.

Jean buried his face in Marco’s chest and let out a groan that morphed through several language’s worth of profanity.

“Y-you should probably answer that,” Marco said distantly, once he’d remembered how his tongue worked.

“Yeah…” Jean pulled back, and flashed Marco a quick, almost bashful smile before reaching for his abandoned phone.  “Hi mom, _fantastic_ timing, by the way...no, mom, woah, _mom, calmes-toi--”_

Marco tuned him out as Jean flipped into French. He flopped onto one end of the couch and let his head fall back, and waited for the spinning to slow down a little.  

“ _Hm? Oh...si, il est ici…_ Hey, Marco. _”_ Marco tuned back in with a start, to see Jean holding out his phone, looking vaguely spooked.  “She wants to talk to you.”

“Uh...ok…” Marco took the phone hesitantly, brain going into overdrive.   _What do I say what do I say...I’m reasonably certain I’m about to have sex with your son definitely not that..._ he took a deep breath and tried to change gears.  “ _Bonjour madame.”_

There was a sniff from the other end of the line.  “Mm. _Belgian._ He failed to mention that.” Jean leaned over the back of the couch, close enough to eavesdrop and they exchanged brief, terrified glances.  “I understand you’ve been of quite some service to my family, Mr. Bodt.”

“It’s my job--” Marco began.

“ _Hardly._ I have known many men who claim they are willing to sacrifice their lives, but those brave enough to actually stand their ground for a cause are quite rare...and those willing to give their lives for a friend are even rarer.  My son told me the risks you’ve taken for him.” Jean blushed and buried his face in the back of the couch.  “I think we were, if I may be frank, pretty fucking lucky to find you.”

“Madame,” Marco said softly.  “I’d be a blind fool not to take that kind of risk for Jean.  As many times as it’s asked of me.”  He saw Jean raise his head out of the corner of his eye, watching him with his head tipped to one side.

Jean’s mother chuckled. “Thank you, Marco.”

Marco sat up straighter, so he could look around into Jean’s eyes.  “Thank _you_ madame.  Thank you for your son.”

There was another chuckle, and the line went dead.  Marco stared at the phone in shock for a few seconds.

“ _Ohh_ she knows.”

“She _always_ knows,” Jean groaned.  He looked away then, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.  “You _meant_ all that stuff you said, didn’t you? You _always_ mean it…” he laughed softly.  “She’s right.  I’ve never known anyone else like...like you.”

Marco just pushed himself up against the threadbare arm of the couch, and held out his arms.  Jean smiled, cheeks turning pink again, and collapsed onto the couch, cuddling up against him.  Marco giggled and pulled him close again, resisting the temptation to squeeze with all his strength, and Jean adjusted enough to glare at him half-heartedly.

"What're you laughing at?"

“You're so _snuggly!_ I never imagined--"

"You imagined  _other_ things, I take it?" Jean commented, the glare turning into a grin.

"S-strictly off duty," Marco said, feeling himself blush, and Jean laughed.

"And that was, what, six hours every couple weeks?" he sighed, resting his head on Marco's shoulder.  "Why the fuck would someone like you care so much about  _me..."_

There was genuine confusion in his voice, and Marco winced, hugging him tighter. "You’re worth it,” he whispered into Jean’s soft hair.  “You’re _so_ worth it…” He drew in a shaky breath, trying to remind himself this was real, it wasn’t a dream, it was really _real._ “On...on Halloween night, there was a second that I...I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, I wasn’t going to get to you in time…” Marco’s voice caught.  “ _God,_ Jean, realizing I could lose you...i-it almost broke me…” he squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the tears burn, trying to force them back, and Jean’s arms wrapped around his neck.

“ _Why,_ though?” he whispered into Marco’s shoulder.  “Why me...I always feel like you’re talking about someone else…” he sat back and smiled crookedly.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’d _love_ to be this guy you apparently see so much of…”

Marco shook his head vigorously, he’d lost the battle to keep the tears from falling but he was smiling as they trailed down his cheeks.  “I don’t know how else to explain it,” he said helplessly, running his fingers through Jean’s hair.  “Y-you’re the first reason I had for _years_ to fight for something...you’re the reason I’m _alive_ again--” and that was as far as he got before Jean kissed him again.

It started out gentle, even relatively chaste...and ended with Marco nearly flat on his back, holding himself up on his elbows, Jean’s hands wandering across his chest and their legs tangled together, both of them gasping for air when they finally broke apart.  Marco shifted until he could hold himself up on one arm, tugging impatiently at Jean’s shirt until he finally got the hint and stripped it off over his head, humming with pleasure as their skin met.

Jean ran his hands down Marco’s sides, and only hesitated for a fraction of a second, eyes going dark, as his fingers met the ugly knot of scar tissue in his right side. “You don’t mind?” he asked, leaning closer to whisper the question in Marco’s ear.  Marco shook his head, slightly surprised to realize he really _didn’t..._ apart from the various doctors who’d stitched him up, no one else had ever seen the gunshot wound, but... _it’s not like he didn’t know it was there,_ Marco thought, tilting his head up to kiss him again.  

They settled into a sort of rough rhythm, as Marco gradually managed to stop thinking too much and follow Jean’s lead.  Jean pushed his shirt aside and pressed his lips against his collarbone, which just felt _stupidly_ good; this whole experience was turning into a guided tour of random spots he never would have imagined were that sensitive (he _really_ didn’t mind Jean’s hand on his scar if it meant his fingers kept brushing over the dip just inside his hipbone, sending rippling shocks through his stomach.) Jean’s hips twisted against his and not that it _really_ came as a surprise but there was definitely no escaping the fact that they were both _extremely_ hard, and once that particular realization hit home it got basically impossible to think about anything else…

Making out with another guy wasn’t _completely_ outside Marco’s sphere of experience (that he was probably gay he’d worked out in his high school years, and dismissed the realization as more or less irrelevant once it became clear that the scenarios his late-night internet research turned up were not likely to present themselves in his reality.)  Nevertheless, it had been longer than he’d be able to admit without blushing, and Marco’s climax caught him _completely_ off-guard.  

He curled in on himself as it hit, suddenly too hot to breath, fingers clenching in Jean’s hair, probably too hard although he didn’t seem to mind much, humming his approval against Marco’s lips as he kissed him through the last of the shivers running through his spine.  

“You okay?” Jean asked, probably a couple minutes later, he wasn’t really sure at that point.

“ _Wheeee_ pretty colors…”

Jean snickered. “Well let me know when the blood makes it back to your brain.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m only judging you a little--” Marco rolled his eyes and opted for another kiss as the most effective method of shutting Jean up again.  Of course, there were more long term options...he tugged Jean down against his side, and the high-pitched sound he got as he unbuckled Jean’s belt with his free hand went a long way towards healing his bruised ego.

It took a few false starts to find an angle that worked, and Jean reached down to cover Marco’s hand with his own, guiding him for a few strokes before he relaxed his hand and just let it lie over Marco’s, fingers twitching occasionally.

Something still felt vaguely off, though...Jean was clearly feeling good, if his increasingly erratic breathing was any indication, but he stayed oddly still, face buried in the crook of Marco’s neck, almost like…

Marco and tilted his head ‘til he could nose at the exposed side of Jean’s face, kissing his cheeks.  “Hey,” he said, not quite able to keep the laugh out of his voice.  “Are you holding out on me?”

“ _Shut up,”_ Jean mumbled into his skin, and Marco got a faint sting of pride from the audible tremor in his voice.  

“Hey, relax, c’mon…” Marco nuzzled into his hair again, slowing down his pace ‘til he felt Jean’s eyes crinkle with frustration against his neck.  “Let me see your face.  Please?”

Jean let out a long, shaky breath, eyes still closed, and then he began to move, hesitantly, tilting his head to kiss Marco’s neck as he pushed up into his hold, jaw clenching.

“ _Marco, I…”_ the words were so soft as to be barely audible, he might have missed it entirely if he hadn’t been able to feel Jean’s lips move against his skin.  “I... _ah, god...I-I…”_ he broke off with a small, frustrated sound, and shook his head, heavy shiver running through him, Marco felt it everywhere their bodies pushed together and the sensation, Jean shaking apart in his arms could almost be enough to make him come all over again.  Jean clutched at him, biting his lips before:  “ _Shit..._ You already know, you _always_ already know…”

Marco tipped his head down to kiss his cheek again, pulling Jean into a tighter hug against his body.  “Say it anyway?”  

Jean’s face went right back into his shoulder with a shaky sigh.  “I...I... _f-fuck, Marco..._ I love you, _I l-love you_ I’ve loved you for s-so long, I-- _ah--!”_

A cell phone, once again, buzzed.

“Trackless wilds of Iowa, you said?” Marco muttered, wiping off his hand as Jeans’ breathing started to return to normal.  He glanced at the clock next to the window, which had the same basic effect as a bucket of cold water on the happy afterglow. “ _Shit._  Do you uh...do you have a pair of pants that will not be immediately recognizable as yours.”

“Going somewhere?” Jean asked, sitting up dizzily.  

“I think I need to go grovel...I uh...kind of quit my job last night?”

“And you only thought to mention this _now?”_ Jean groaned into his hands.

“There was a lot going on, ok?”

“ _Tell_ me about it.”

 

About three minutes later, re-outfitted in his abandoned (and therefore spared) suit jacket and a suitably generic pair of Jean’s pants, Marco stopped himself with one hand on the doorknob and attempted to club his thoughts back into some kind of order.  Close his eyes long enough and he could almost convince himself it was a dream, if not for the stinging memory of Jean’s kisses on his still-tender lips.

“Got everything?” Jean asked.  He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt back on, and he came far closer than he would have before, smiling faintly.

“Yeah-- _no,_ almost everything. _Christ_ I’m an idiot.”  Marco whirled around and caught Jean in a crushing one-armed hug.  Jean sighed and relaxed into his arms, his smile getting wider and brighter.  Marco shut his eyes and squeezed him tighter against his chest.  “I love you too.”

 

 

* * *

About the time the light of sunrise was working its way into Jean’s apartment for the first time, a discing tractor turned of the highway onto an access road not far from Aurora, headed out to get a layer of manure on the bare corn fields before the ground froze for good.  

The driver hesitated as he turned onto the narrow blacktop - there was a white pickup parked on the shoulder of the road, hazards flashing.  At first glance it looked abandoned, but as he drew level a slim figure bundled up in a heavy coat straightened up in the truck bed and waved reassuringly.  The driver returned the wave, and the figure nodded in apparent satisfaction and slammed the lid of an equipment trunk bolted down in the bed.  He kept one eye in the rear view mirror as the pickup’s driver hopped gracefully to the ground, the early sunlight glinting on pale blonde  hair neatly tied back, and climbed back into the cab.

The white Tacoma backed up pulled back onto the access road, nosing carefully around the green highway sign by the side of the road, bent over slightly by the wind.

**Kirstein Chemical**

**Rose Production Facility                 4 miles**

 

 

 

* * *

**A brief respite…**

But nothing lasts forever, no matter how we might wish for a night to go on.  The light will always find you, whether it is welcome or not.  When **Strings: A serial adventure story** returns, the threads of the spider’s web begin to draw taut under the weight of the greatest secret of all:  What is the meaning of the unbroken code **RB-BH-AL?**

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few people ask me on tumblr who would be on top/on bottom when this story finally earned its M rating.  
> Your question now has an answer.
> 
> The answer is derp.
> 
> (There was an alternate stinger for this chapter that got axed on the grounds of being too silly even for me. I'll put it up on tumblr as an omake of sorts; the story of Why Levi is in the Emergency Room, or: The Importance of the Mute Button)


	10. RB--BH--AL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC this chapter was a monster. Huge massive amounts of thanks to my betas, Piyo13, bearsthethird, and con-affetto-kiko, for helping me salvage the opening when I bogged down (and for just telling me it sucked and I needed to start over XD.) You guys complete me. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks is also due to lownly, queen of grace, class, and all things Jeanmarco, and all the tumblr peeps who supported me during the anon hate debacle a couple weeks ago. Jeanmarco people are the best people on the planet, and the way you guys responded to that mess was truly humbling.
> 
> And speaking of the best people on the planet - a certain flawless human being, phixuscarus over on tumblr, drew Strings fan art! I'll link them if I ever figure out how to put links in notes but until then, their art is gorgeous and you should check it out. (Mostly shirtless Marco I am dead.)(Jean is deader) 
> 
> That's all I got. Enjoy the chapter! All 7100 words of it.

Jean lay stretched out on his bed in his boxers, hair wet from the shower and soaking into his pillow, and examined the plaster topography of his bedroom ceiling as his thoughts wandered.

Marco loved him.   _Marco loved him,_ and beyond that the words just...ran out.  Even in the confines of his own mind nothing was enough, the easy poetry of the love songs he’d heard all his life still too weak to bear the weight of the words... _Marco loves me._

And he’d said it _first_ , to a guy he’d known for a little more than a month (even if Marco had saved his life a few times and helped him topple a billion dollar corporation in the course of said month.) He’d said _I love you..._ and what did _that_ mean, anyway? What did it mean when Marco said it, for that matter? Jean rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow, trying to recall the sensation of the moment he’d said the words...Marco’s arms around him pinning them together, his hot lips brushing quick, formless kisses across his face…

But that wasn’t right, that was just the moment he’d let his barriers down, riding on the high of the sex and the relief of being safe again.  He’d first realized long before that, sitting in the dusty stairwell of a random rundown office building, their vain attempt to avoid the car (the _person)_ who would nearly kill him a few hours later…

 _He doesn’t really_ care _about me._

_Yeah? Well I do._

That was it, wasn’t it...Jean blew a heavy breath into the cloth against his face.  Marco _cared,_ it seemed as intrinsic to his being as his freckles, as the scars on his arms--and where did those come from? The times he couldn’t _stop_ caring, couldn’t stop blaming himself for someone else’s pain.   _Idiot,_ Jean thought,  as the tears stung and gathered under his eyelids.  

He’d never made friends easily.  He skated along well enough as part of a group, but he’d always been too afraid to open up, held back by his insecurities and his frustration.  His increasingly confusing sexuality had caused his parents’ already rocky marriage to disintegrate completely, and as every media source filled up with news about the Kirsteins ( _negligence fraud culpable in the deaths of hundreds if not thousands_ ) in the wake of Maria and Jean retreated into his shell.  Even saying hello to his friends started to feel like too much work, or too much risk, and none of them really seemed to care that he was drifting away.

And then, six photos, a lot of phone calls, and a trip to Survey later, Marco Bodt arrived in his life with all the grace and subtlety of a dead fish dropped from a great height.  Marco, who wasn’t merely _willing_ to listen to his history of insecurity and daddy issues, but who truly seemed to _want_ to know.  Marco always pushed him to open up, let it out, asking endless questions to draw the stories out of him and somewhere in there Jean had stopped wondering when Marco would get sick of listening.

Yeah, his attachment to Marco was pretty easily explained...but some part of Jean’s mind just couldn’t accept that Marco would ever return his feelings.  He’d told himself, over and over, that it was all wishful thinking.  There were those fleeting moments when Marco looked at him and he could _almost_ think that maybe...but how could Marco, selfless, warmhearted, tormented Marco ever feel anything for him?  Jean _needed_ Marco, for a month and a half he’d clung to him with something that bordered on desperation.  Marco was his safe port in the storm.

It was always Marco’s _eyes_ that stuck in his head, the moments when he’d press his hand into his side and the light, the bottomless sunlight well that filled his eyes went dead.  The wildfire fury when he jumped to his feet, blood smeared across his face and his gun in his hand, nothing held back and nothing controlled, and a little like his expression when he looked up at Jean, pupils blown wide and hair clinging to his sweaty face, unable to form words through the heaving of his chest, full of that _warmth…_

...that always seemed to return when he looked at Jean.

Jean curled into a ball, eyes suddenly wide open and heart fluttering in his throat.  It had never occurred to him before that Marco might in turn have found some kind of strength to draw from Jean.

 

He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until he woke up to a text message and a sore neck.  Jean blinked away the fuzzy vision, chilly now that the warmth of the shower had worn off, and looked around for his phone.  

The text came from a number he didn’t recognize.  Jean frowned, dragging one of his blankets up over his shoulders.

**_it occurs to me you don’t actually have my number_ **

The frown instantly turned into a smile, and Jean felt his cheeks heat up.  From a fucking _text…_ he hit _reply_ and tapped out a response.

**_at least buy me a drink first_ **

**_Deal._** Marco’s reply was almost instantaneous. According to the clock on his phone, he’d been asleep for almost four hours...was Marco still at Survey? He thought for a minute, trying to frame the question, and then typed:

**_Hows the grovelling going?_ **

**_well ive been yelled at by every senior officer of all three branches and now capt levis pretending to be mad at me_ **

Jean winced.  The taciturn captain had actually been the first Survey official they’d spoken to in the wake of the threats, and Jean had spent the meeting wondering whether the captain or his father was going to throw a punch first.  

His phone binged again: _Incoming picture message. Accept?_ The hell…?  Jean raised an eyebrow and hit accept.

The picture, when it loaded, showed Captain Levi leaning back in a squishy-looking office chair, feet propped on his desk...with a dainty little black-and-white cat lying on his chest, melted in happy-cat bliss. Levi was scratching the cat’s ears, and _smiling,_ albeit faintly.  Marco had simply captioned it **:3** , and Jean laughed out loud.

 ** _so ur ok?_** he replied.  

The response was long enough in coming that he’d actually started to worry.  Jean was in the process of typing out another message when it came.

**_DELETE THAT PICTURE OR I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN LIKE AN ANIMAL_ **

It was followed a moment later by a second message:

**_and hes fine_ **

Jean dutifully deleted the picture of Levi and his kitten, pausing only to email it to himself in few different places.

 ** _are ALL survey people as weird as you?_** he figured the question applied equally to whoever had control of Marco’s phone.  

 ** _Honestly im on the saner end of the scale XD_** That had to be Marco; a mental image of Levi using emoticons completely failed to form.

Jean curled up and pulled his blanket entirely over his head, creating a stuffy little cave lit only by the glow of his phone.  Despite his prolonged, unintentional nap he felt lazy and sleepy again; with the constant tension of the threats gone, his string of frightened all-nighters was finally starting to catch up to him.  He thumbed back through the string of texts, heart fluttering in that slightly sickly way he’d come to associate with Marco.  When he drifted off again, it was with the memory of Marco’s laugh swirling around his head.

 

He awoke to another text bing, this time a solid nine hours later.  Jean groaned, throat dry and eyes sticky.  His first reaction was to roll over and go back to sleep, until it occurred to him who the message was probably from and he was instantly wide awake.

**_retroactive awkward post-hookup breakfast?_ **

_It’s too early in the morning to be blushing this much,_ Jean grumbled internally, completely ignoring the fact that it was 10:30.

**_you still owe me a drink_ **

**_then come get it_ **

Jean stayed still for a long time, staring blankly at the vaguely flirtatious message and the address that followed it: a building not too far from Jean’s, in one of the cheaper blocs on the other side of the university campus.

He was dressed and out the door before his brain caught up, as he walked across campus, head bowed against the wind...alone.  He hadn’t been anywhere _alone_ since there were still leaves on the trees. Jean snorted as he caught himself automatically sticking to the edge of the sidewalk away from the street, leaving the empty space where Marco would have been.  A few weeks ago, he’d thought he would be ecstatic to be on his own again, but in practice it just felt weird and lonely and the queasy nerves were starting to coil up in his stomach again, cold and heavy.

How were they going to pick up from... _that?_  He’d kissed Marco exactly twice, half crazy with fear and adrenaline on both occasions. _Maybe if I jump in front of another truck I’ll stop being nervous…_

 

Marco’s apartment was on the fourth floor of a little gray building squeezed between two student housing blocks, and Jean had to pause to get his breath back before he knocked.  

“ _It’s open!”_ Marco yelled and Jean managed to wipe the goofy smile off his face before he opened the door.  

Jean stood frozen in the doorway, cheeks turning pink, tongue-tied like he hadn’t been since he was a teenager on his first date.  Marco looked...different, his glossy hair messy and ruffled, making pancakes in jeans and bare feet.  And a t-shirt. Marco was wearing a t-shirt. It was dark green, v-necked (cut low enough to show some of the patch of black hair at the center of his chest _shut up libido)_ and the color seemed to make his big eyes look darker and brighter.

“You can come in, y’know,” Marco said, not quite concealing the laugh in his voice, and Jean’s face got a few degrees hotter.  

“S-sorry…” he stepped awkwardly into the entryway that fed into Marco’s tiny kitchenette.  “I’ve just...you never…” he swallowed hard and tried to get the nerves under control.  “You look different.”

“Off-duty clothes, aren’t they great?”  Marco said cheerfully, flipping two pancakes onto a plate next to him, and making Jean painfully aware of the compact muscles in his bare arms.   _Oh god I’ve never even seen you off-duty before, I don’t know anything about you it’s all too different it’ll never work--_

“ _You_ look nervous.’  Marco turned off the stove and looked at him again, head on one side. “Hey...c’mere.”

Jean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and stepped gratefully into Marco’s open arms.  He shut his eyes and burrowed into Marco’s shoulder; the size difference between them put his head at the perfect height.  A hand ran up his back and curled protectively around the back of his head, and Jean felt the nerves leaching away.   _I know nothing about you...except how you got your scars, and that you used to dream of being in the Secret Service ‘cause you watched them drill at the embassy, I know how you came out to your parents and that you can’t use a normal alarm clock because the beeping sounds too much like a panic button, that’s why you take the batteries out of your smoke detectors too…_

Maybe picking up where they left off _wasn’t_ going to be so impossible.  Standing here in Marco’s arms felt easy enough, soaking up the warmth of his muscular frame through the soft cotton of that _goddamned_ t-shirt…

Jean gave into temptation and nuzzled his nose into the vee of Marco’s shirt, the hair tickling his nose.  

“ _Yeee! Stoppit stoppit stoppit--”_ Marco squealed, slapping him away.

“Oh _now_ you’re ticklish?”

“ _I’m not ticklisheeEEEEEEEK!”_

Several complicated seconds passed, and Jean found himself in some kind of headlock with his arms pinned behind his back.  “Combat training is cheating,” he grumbled, attempting to squirm loose.  

“You sure weren’t complaining yesterday.”  Jean could _hear_ the grin, even though he couldn’t turn his head far enough to see Marco’s face.  He settled for stomping on his foot, and wound up in a heap on the floor.  His retort (which would have been _spectacularly_ witty and charming and would definitely not include the phrase ‘your mom wasn’t complaining’) was interrupted by his stomach growling loudly, and Jean was suddenly very aware of the smell of pancakes permeating the small apartment.

“Truce?” Marco said, pulling him back to his feet.

“Truce.  As long as the pancakes last.”

Marco’s pancakes turned out to be pretty good, especially for someone who claimed he hardly ever cooked.  They ended up eating them side by side on the ugly little loveseat in Marco’s living room, in the unspoken understanding that neither of them wanted to be out of hugging distance for more than a few seconds.  Jean tucked his feet up under him and curled into Marco’s side, surrendering to the cocoon of complicated silence.  Everything was _so_ different now, barely twenty-four hours past that tense, endless night...and yet here and now he felt they’d barely changed at all.  

“So,” he said eventually, setting down his empty plate with a _clunk._ “What’s the verdict from Survey?  I mean, if they spent the whole fucking _day_ yelling at you--”

Marco giggled in that infuriating way of his, and Jean glowered.  “I’m taking a leave of absence,” Marco told him with a grin.  “to ‘reduce my stress levels.’  Meaning they’d _love_ to slap me with something but I didn’t _actually_ do anything against principle.”

“You’re getting paid time off?” Jean grumbled.

“I’m getting paid time off.  I start again in January.”  Marco ducked his head, rubbing his nose sheepishly. “...as a researcher.”  

“ _Only_ you,” Jean said, rolling his eyes, but the relief showed through in his voice and he knew it.  Of _course_ Marco walked away from this clusterfuck smelling of roses.

He looked up in time to watch Marco’s grin slowly soften into a gentle smile, the one he’d caught out of the corner of his eye, countless times, but never quite believed was meant for him.  A long arm slipped around his waist and Marco pulled him closer, tracing his fingertips gently along the sharp line of Jean’s jaw.  Jean closed the distance greedily, and Marco stifled a laugh as their lips met.  His response was slower and softer, but no less fervent and this time it was Jean who wound up flat on his back, with Marco leaning over him.

“Hey,” Marco said, when they eventually broke apart for breath.  He sat back on his heels and put both hands on Jean’s shoulders.  “Listen, I’ve been thinking...I’ve got all this time off, so...I think I’m gonna go home.  For a little while.”  Jean glanced pointedly around the apartment, and Marco rolled his eyes, punching him in the shoulder.  “Not _here,_ smartass.   _Home_ home.  Back to Belgium.  Just for a few weeks!” he added hastily as Jean sat up sharply, mouth opening to retort.  “It’s been a long time...and I haven’t seen my mom since she moved back to Brussels.  I just...I kinda feel like it’s time.”

Jean propped himself up on his elbows and regarded his bodyguard (his _former_ bodyguard, he corrected himself, and the thought sent another tingling thrill down his spine).  He shrugged.

“Okay.”

Marco blinked. “Okay?”

“Sure.  Cool.  Go home and hang out with your mom.”  He raised his eyebrows at Marco’s surprised expression.  “What did you _think_ I was gonna say?”

Marco blew out a breath, laughing at himself.  “I don’t actually know.  I was all geared up to feel guilty about running out on you…”

Jean sat up and looped his arms around Marco’s neck, pressing their foreheads together.  “I can’t pretend I won’t miss you like crazy,” he said softly, sliding his fingers into Marco’s tousled hair.  “But I get it.  I think you should go.  Bill my dad for a business class seat.”

Marco’s evil grin returned in an instant.  “Already did.”

“ _Fuck_ I love you.”

 

 

* * *

“You’re _sure_ about this,” Jean said for the hundredth time, trailing Marco down the sidewalk outside the Survey Intelligence building.  

“It’s _fine,_ don’t worry about it,” Marco laughed.  “Survey isn’t really known for following rules to the letter.” He paused to consider that statement.  “Or at all.  Besides, I won’t be here long, I just need to talk to Zoe…”

They reached the building’s side door, and Marco held it open for him as they ducked inside, out of the punishingly cold wind.  “You’re still doing sweeps,” Jean observed, trying to rub some life back into his frozen fingers.

“Force of habit.” Marco draped a heavy arm over Jean’s shoulders and shook the snow out of his hair.

“You are _annoying_ when you’re happy, you know that?” Jean grumbled, heaving his arm off.  He got a kiss on the cheek in return, and barely managed to fight down a smile.  He’d seen plenty of Marco’s silly side (usually late at night, in the middle of their bitterly contested, half-french-half-english Risk marathons), but he’d never seen him this wildly, deliriously _happy_ before, and it was infuriatingly adorable.  

Marco’s arm was back around his shoulders before they’d made it halfway down the hall, and this time Jean didn’t bother to protest.  The building was surprisingly busy for the week before Thanksgiving, but hardly anyone spared them a second glance, and those who did tended to smile.

“Hey, Marco!” They both looked around as a skinny guy with light brown hair falling into his eyes caught up to them, his arms full of papers.  “I wasn’t expecting to see you around here so soon.”

“Hey, Mo.  Yeah, I’m looking for Zoe.  She in her usual spot?”

“The queen is accepting visitors to the throne room,” Mo said, falling into step beside them with an eyeroll.  “Levi’s refusing to go past the basement door, they’ve got me running interference.”

Marco and Jean both winced in sympathy; half the stories Marco had told him about Survey centered around Zoe and Levi’s rather unconventional married life.  

“Is she having any luck?” Marco asked, lowering his voice as he drew to a halt beside the door to a descending stairwell.  

Mo sighed deeply, and his bright smile faded a little.  “See for yourself,” he said, with a slightly helpless shrug.  “I gotta run before Levi comes looking for me.”  He started off down the hallway, and then pulled up short and spun around, nearly losing his grip on the stack of files.  “ _Sorry,_ hi Jean! It’s good to meet you in person...I mean...you have no clue who I am, right, but I kinda feel like I already know you after listening to all that-- _anyway_ good to see you!”  He spun around again and half-ran off, looking flustered.

Jean looked up at Marco, and caught a split-second glance of a strange, tense expression...he looked almost _frightened._ And then it was gone, replaced by Marco’s normal smile before he could begin to make sense of what he’d seen.

“He started working for Zoe about the same I joined Garrison,” Marco explained as they clomped down the narrow, badly lit stairwell. “He was running backup for the Krista thing.  And for you, obviously.  We’ve...um...been through a lot, I guess…”

Jean squinted at Marco’s ears in the dim light.  Was he _blushing?_

“He’s your ‘limited experience’ isn’t he?” Marco jumped, and Jean grinned.  

“I forget how damn _perceptive_ you are,” Marco grumbled, but there was no real sting to it.  “Zoe set us up when we were celebrating the end of the Reiss tribunal...needless to say we were both pretty wasted.”

“So...he’s gonna be okay with...with _us,_ right?”  

Marco snorted.  “He’d better be, he won the pool.”  

Jean stopped dead in his tracks, kicking up a cloud of stairwell grime around his feet.  “They were _betting_ on us?”  Marco looked back and rolled his eyes.

“Watching Connie and Sasha try to look surprised was a painful to behold, let me tell you.” He tilted his head at Jean’s mortified expression and laughed, hopping back up the stairs to stand beside him.  “I _told_ you, stop _worrying_ about it.”  He reached out and took both Jean’s hands in his, pulling him closer; with Marco on the step below him, their eyes were at the same height.  “Look, I know growing up around your dad was rough, but these are _Survey_ people.  Weird is just how we do things, trust me.”

Jean shrugged awkwardly, turning his head away so he didn’t have to look Marco in the eyes.  “I-I’m just not used to being open about... _anything,_ but especially _this--_ I’m sorry, I’m such a fucking _coward--_ ”  

“Don’t say that,” Marco cut him off softly.  He slipped one hand under Jean’s chin, touch feather light, and turned his head to face him.  “You’ve got every reason to be scared…” Jean sighed and shut his eyes, tilting his face into Marco’s warm hand.

“Survey was never planned, did you know that?” Marco said, fingers sliding into Jean’s hair and running lightly across his scalp.  “It was never supposed to exist, it just...kinda happened.  It started out as an offshoot of Garrison...kind of a garbage disposal for everyone who didn’t fit in the military structure.  And then Irvin Smith came along, and Levi and Hanji, and they started _recruiting_ all the misfits who washed out of Garrison, and the academy…” he laughed softly.  “The first time I met Commander Smith he told me I was gonna end up in Survey, sooner or later.  We recognize our own, see?  The minute you walked through that door everyone knew you were one of us.”

“I still think you’re crazy,” Jean said, leaning forward to kiss him, reminding himself as their lips met that it was still real, he really _could_ just kiss Marco, like it was nothing…

Something warm brushed against his ankle and Jean jumped a foot.  A very familiar black-and-white cat twined around his feet, purring uproariously.  

“Awww, hi Aramis! Did you get locked out?”  Marco bent down and scooped the cat up, rubbing her ears, and the purring doubled in volume.  

“Is that…”

“Levi’s cat? Yup.” Marco grinned, starting down the stairs again.  “Well, _one_ of his cats.  He pulled three of ‘em out of a storm drain on Michigan Avenue last spring.  Aramis is usually the only one who hangs out here though. Right, furball?”

 _The most dangerous man in America rescues kittens,_ Jean thought, following Marco down the last flight of stairs.   _He wasn’t kidding about the weirdness._  

Marco stopped outside the heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs.  “Hey...can you give me a minute alone?  I...I need to talk to Zoe…” he shifted the grumbling cat to the crook of one arm and pulled a glass bottle out of the inside pocket of his coat.

“Peppermint Kahlua?”

Marco heaved a sigh, looking nervous.  “Peace offering...I owe her a pretty major apology.  If I don’t return tell my mom I died with honor…”  Jean smirked and stepped out of the way as Marco pushed the door open, calling out to the surveillance tech inside.  

“O-oh, hello again.”  Jean looked up at the voice, and nodded to Mo as he came down the stairs.  He’d swapped the disorganized stack of files for a single binder, but he didn’t look any less frazzled.  “Marco in there?”

Jean nodded.  “He said give ‘em a minute...I guess he wants to apologize for something?”

“ _Good,”_ Mo replied, his expression flipping from good-natured exhaustion to solid ice in a fraction of a second.  “He sure as hell owes her one.”  Jean raised his eyebrows, and Mo blinked, shaking off the frozen look of anger.

“I suppose I should do this right this time.” He turned to face Jean and held out a hand.  “Hi. I’m Mo Berner.  Deputy director of intelligence, glorified gofer, and occasional marriage counselor.”  

Jean smiled and shook his hand.  “Jean Kirstein.  Useless rich kid.”  The situation should have been awkward, but he was finding it pretty impossible to dislike Mo Berner.  

“Where’re you getting _useless_ from?” Mo said, leaning back against the wall.  It looked like he was pretty used to waiting around outside the basement door.  “From what I hear you were behind every break we _got_ in this mess.  Zoe’d hire you in a second.  Hell, she’d probably _marry_ you if polygamy were legal in this state.”

Jean pictured Captain Levi’s cool blue gaze and felt the blood drain from his face.  “I-I’m good, thanks.”  

Mo glanced towards the door, and lowered his voice, speaking more seriously.  “Do you have any ideas about the RB-BH-AL thing?  She’s about ready to tear her hair out--”

“ _Moooooo are you out there? Stop being out there and be in here!”_

“...aaand that’s my cue,” Mo said with a tired smile.  He fished in one of his pockets with a free hand and tossed Jean a business card.  “Look, that’s got my number and Zoe’s on it.  If you think of anything...call me, ok?  No such thing as bad information.”

 _So_ that’s _where Marco got that line,_ Jean thought as he followed him through the door.  

“Do you have the thing? Give me the thing.”  The command came from the figure curled in a squashy, broken springed chair in front of a monitor bank that occupied most of one wall of the surveillance center.  Mo hastened across the room to hand her  the binder he carried.  Marco waved as Jean came to stand beside him, his eyes looking a little glassy in the glow of the screens.  

“ _Augh_ useless!”  Hanji Zoe tossed the binder over her shoulder (Mo dodged it with long-practiced ease) and spun her chair around.  “ _Why_ can I not find these people? I’ve tried every cross-reference I can _think_ of but nothing matches.  How can forty goddamned people be this hidden?”

“RB-BH-AL?” Jean whispered to Marco, who nodded.

“And the rest of the initials on the altered blueprints...we’re hitting walls everywhere we look.”

As soon as Jean opened his mouth, the battered office chair whirled around, and he found himself subjected to a long, downright analytical once-over.

“If I’d known he was _that_ hot I would have put my money on ‘under five minutes’ too,” Zoe said to Marco, as though she were remarking on the weather.  Jean and Marco both blushed.  

“ _Zoeee,”_ Marco whined.

“Consider it vengeance,” she replied tartly.  “Hi, Jean.  Welcome to the family.”  Like Mo, she used the French pronunciation of his name.  

“Hi,” Jean replied, feeling completely lost.  “Um...thanks for all the work you’ve done…”

“Don’t thank _me,”_ Zoe said cheerily, producing a Mountain Dew bottle, apparently out of thin air.  “It’s all thanks to you kid, you got us all the--th-the _insights_ we have.”

And there it was again...a fraction of a second hesitation, and the sense that Marco had just gone stiff beside him.  And again, it was gone in an instant, before Jean could latch on to anything more than the faintest suspicion that something was weird.  

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Jean asked, forcing down the unease.  “I...I’d like to see the Maria victims get justice.”

Zoe regarded him steadily, and her wide brown eyes softened as when she smiled.  “Actually...there might be.  You used to work at Maria, right?  I’m trying to get ahold of the factory’s payroll.  I’ve got--” her eyes flicked to Marco for a second, “I’ve got _access_ to the online database, but it only goes back two years...do you know how to get your hands on the original papertrail?”

Jean considered.  He’d been a lowly archive gofer at the Maria office; they weren’t allowed to handle payroll documents on pain of death.  But…

“No,” he said eventually, chewing on his lower lip as he thought.  “But I know someone who _can._ ”

 

 

* * *

Jean kissed Marco goodbye on the pavement outside O’Hare International, two days before Thanksgiving.  Once his former bodyguard (he didn’t know what else to think of Marco as) disappeared through the doors, he walked back to the borrowed Survey car and drove out of the city.

The holiday traffic thinned once he got clear of the beltway, and by the time he turned down the access road near Aurora the highways were all but deserted.  Once again he lingered in the car in the empty lot, staring out across the frozen cornfields to the abandoned factory in the distance.  

Jean pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen.  Still no reply...he redialed a number for the fourth time and sighed as it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey Armin,” he said into the staticky connection, trying to keep his voice casual.  “Are you gonna be around this week?  You know, since Marco’s off my back, and we haven’t hung out in awhile...I wanted to pick your brain about some company stuff too, so...call me back, okay?”  He stuck his phone back in his pocket and got out of the car, feeling guilty.  He was probably asking too much...Armin still worked for Kirstein Co, after all.  If Zoe found enough information to break the company, he’d be out of a high-paying job…

The electronic lock beeped at his access card, and Jean lingered in the eerily silent foyer as he waited for the fluorescent lights to warm up.   _Payroll,_ he thought, _where would payroll be...were_ there even payroll records?  He remembered vividly many long boring afternoons of shredding time cards...funny how that only seemed weird in hindsight.  The more he thought about the way Maria was run, the more obvious it became:  the entire organization of the plant was designed to hide something _big._ Forty -people-who-didn’t-exist-outside-of-initials-in-a-ledger-big.

Initials in a ledger...now _that_ was an idea.  Jean hopped over the reception desk and ran towards the archives, propelled by a sudden sting of excitement.  There was an alcove just to the left of the big doors into the blueprint archives, a sort of left-over space created by the shelves and desks.  It was lined with cheap metal shelves covered in a variety of odds and ends, with one battered discarded desk wedged into what little floor space remained.  The Maria clerical staff used to call it the ‘gofer burrow,’ he recalled in a wave of unexpected nostalgia.

There had been five summer gofers for most of Jean’s tenure in the office: him, Armin Artlet, a shy German kid named Thomas Wagner, and Franz and Hannah, who spent most of their time sneaking off to whatever secluded corner they could find while the other three grudgingly covered for them.  They’d adopted the alcove as an unofficial office, and over time it had accumulated various...stuff.  Especially oft-referenced books and records that they were sick of running all the way to the back of the archives for.

Like the records of how many hours each employee was contracted to work.  Not quite the elusive payroll, but maybe it would give Hanji Zoe a starting point…

The big black accordion files were right where he remembered them, on one of the shelves above the communal desk. Precious little had changed since the offices closed down...there was even still a scattering of pictures, cheap disposable camera shots, on the surface of the desk.  Franz and Hannah looking disgustingly cute, Armin with his granddad, a sweet, curmudgeonly old guy who worked as a janitor in the factory, Jean and Armin eating lunch and laughing about something on the lawn outside...Jean sighed, briefly lost in the past.  They weren’t bad memories, for the most part.  They’d all gotten along well enough, even managed to have some fun.  Until the day Alek Kierstein walked by the gofer den in time to see fifteen-year-old Jean hesitantly kissing Armin.

He reached up to grab the employee files, trying to shake off the memory.  They’d been motivated more by curiosity than by any real attraction; Jean had just begun to realize he might like guys, Armin was available and not too hard to convince...and his dad had gone through the roof.  Jean finally convinced his father that he’d forced Armin into it, trying to buy his friend a chance at keeping his job…

The file slipped out of his hands and dropped to the ground with a _thud,_ jolting Jean back to the present.  It was _far_ heavier than he’d expected, the bulging sides ripped where it hit the cement floor.  Jean frowned in confusion, bending to gather it up.  The employee files _should_ have been a bunch of single-sheet contracts...but this one was stuffed full of _books,_ the green hardback ledgers used to track most of the factory’s day to day activities.   _Production statistics..._ they were all production statistics, month by month from 1999 all the way up to 2007, the year of the explosion, what the _hell?_

Jean seized the second accordion file, heart leaping into his throat as he felt the weight.  More books...safety records this time, cleaning shutdowns and safety inspections for the same time period.  Someone had been making notes in the reams of printout, figures circled in red, marked with page numbers...Jean scanned the figures, lips moving, and grabbed for one of the production ledgers.  There were more notes, the page numbers in the other ledger corresponded to this one and as he stared at the page a picture began to form in his head.

Someone had beaten Survey to the punch, maybe by _years..._ they’d been working on the anomaly of the Maria factory all this time, squirreling their work away in this obscure corner of the offices.   _Marco said they had reason to believe Annie Leonhardt was connected to Maria,_ he thought.  AL...Jean looked up at the last file, stomach churning.

In comparison to the other two, it was almost weightless.  No books, just something rolling across the creased cardboard bottom with a strange sloshing sound.  Jean snapped the elastic band off and pushed the lid open...and then threw the entire thing away from him with a strangled yell.  The file skidded across the surface of the desk with more sloshing, and a brown glass jar rolled out of the open top.  Jean slammed one hand over his mouth, fighting back a pounding wave of nausea as he reached out to stop the jar from toppling to the floor.  If it stayed closed he could handle it, but if it broke...there was no way.  Just no fucking way.

It was a specimen jar, filled with some kind of preservative...and two human fingers, bumping against the glass.

He stumbled out of the office at a run, awkwardly balancing the stacks of ledgers, brain on fire.  The jar and its grisly contents thumped against his leg, nestled in a coat pocket and wrapped in several pieces of scrap paper.  He tried not to think about it, knocking the lights off with an elbow and shouldering the front doors open.  Jean dumped the whole load in the passenger seat of the car and dove behind the wheel, fumbling for his phone again.

“Hey, Yeager--yeah I know it’s break--no, seriously, _Eren shut up,_ get your ass and your chemistry minor over to my apartment right the fuck now.  No, fuck you I’m not insane, I...Eren I think I know what happened at Maria.   _Yes._ Five years ago.  I know what caused the explosion!”

 

* * *

 

“You’re right,” Eren said, hours later, staring at his calculator with bloodshot eyes.  “With the number of safety shutdowns they scheduled, there’s no way output could have been this high...but it’s so incidental you’d never see it unless you know what you’re looking for.  Increasing...what, 0.02 percent for a week-long process, but add it up over ten years…wow.”  

“That’s how Kierstein Co. cornered the market,” Jean whispered, head pounding.  “They skipped safety shutdowns...I mean, all that production equipment, cleaning and checking it all must take…”

“ _Days,”_ Eren said.  “I’ve done  units on big-scale production.  You have to take the entire goddamned setup apart and sterilize every inch of it.” He clicked the calculator back into its case and rubbed his eyes.  “What I can’t figure out is how they were keeping the quality so high.  If they were dodging cleaning shutdowns, it should have screwed them long-term.  Let all that gunk build up and it fucks up the entire process.”  

Jean trailed a finger down the list of serial numbers on his computer screen.  It was nearly midnight, and while Eren made endless calculations Jean had been looking back through the blueprints, trying to track down the equipment on the factory floor.  He typed one long string of numbers into the search field and sat back, stretching, as results began to pop up on the screen.  Brewing, catalyst beds, huge stainless steel vats he recognized mainly from the sets of _Breaking Bad._ He looked at the dimensions and his gaze drifted back to his coat, lying on the floor with the little brown specimen jar hidden in an inner pocket.  

“Hey, Eren...for the stuff they made at Maria, is there some kind of...break, I guess?  A part of the regular process where the vats are just empty?”

Eren stood up with a groan and came to look over his shoulder.  “With those? Yeah, I think they have some kind of cooldown after the product drains off...it just sits empty for, I dunno, fifteen minutes until the fans kick on again.”

Jean stared at the dimensions of the brewing vat for a long, silent moment as Eren walked into the kitchen and started digging through his fridge.  It had a big drainage pipe in the side, about two feet in diameter...

He picked up his phone and started dialing.  Eren looked up and tilted his head in confusion.

“I know how they did it,” Jean said flatly.  “I know how they were cleaning without shutting down.”

The phone on the other end actually went to voicemail before the recording cut off with a beep and a rustle, and Mo Berner’s voice said “Jean? Hi.  Is something wrong?”

“Hey Mo.  Maybe...look, I might have something, but I’m not sure… Can you get access to emergency room records, in the Aurora area, the night of the explosion at Maria?”

There was a long pause, and then Mo said “Yeah, I think I can pull that off.  What am I looking for?”

Jean thought, trying to make sense of the vague idea forming in his head.  “An accident record, somewhere in that area...I don’t think it could be more than a few hours from Aurora though.  It would be mutilation, probably would have called it a car wreck, or an accident with power tools, something like that...but not a Maria victim, definitely not.“  Jean took a deep, calming breath, but his throat closed up around the words.  He reached for his coat, pulled out the specimen jar and turned it around in his hands, forcing himself to look at its horrible contents, trying to judge the size…”It would have been a...a kid. A boy, I think” He looked down at his own hands. “Probably...p-probably about fourteen years old.  He would have been missing part of his left hand.  Two fingers, maybe part of a third--” he broke off, listening to Mo on the other end of the line.  “Really? Do you mind sending me the record.  How far off--ok.  Ok, thanks.”

He hung up his phone and sat staring blankly into space for a long, silent moment, sweat beading up on his forehead.  Then the brown jar clattered against the tabletop and Jean managed to make it to the sink in time to be violently sick.

“ _Woah!”_ Eren yelled, somewhere behind the ringing in his ears, he was asking if he was alright, _alright,_ he’d never be alright again.  Jean found himself laughing a little hysterically, between the heaves.

A few minutes later, he slid down to the floor to lean against the kitchen counter, wiping his face with shaky hands as Eren knelt beside him, his green eyes wide with concern. The last few moments of the conversation kept gleefully replaying themselves in his head.  

_I’ve got a possibility here, home workshop accident, like you said.  A little off from your age estimate._

How far off? Jean had asked, and Mo answered indistinctly, around a mouthful of something.

_He was eleven.  But according to the record he was pretty tall for his age, so…_

“Eleven,” Jean said, and his stomach rolled again.  His voice was hoarse from the acid in his throat, and Eren’s concern was starting to edge into fear. “An eleven year old boy, that's how they did it.  My father used _kids,_ to clean out the vats between batches, to save the shutdown time. Wait for the system to go into cooldown, shove the kids inside to scrub, and it takes thirty minutes instead of eight hours to disassemble everything.  And then a kid’s still inside when cooldown turns off and loses half his hand to a fan blade.”

His laptop binged, _new email,_ and Jean got up unsteadily and stomped back to the table.  How did it cause the explosion, he wondered as Mo’s file loaded.  A kid flailing around in pain, knocks into something and causes a spill? It wouldn’t take very many exposed wires hot grates to start a fire.  Or maybe everybody’s running to the screaming kid, and something overheats, or gets missed...any number of ways.

The file finished downloading, and his computer binged again; another file, with a message from Mo.   _Jean, there’s another one.  The report says these two kids came in together, one with the mutilated hand, one with acid burns around his eyes.  LOOK AT THEIR NAMES._

Jean picked up his phone and dialed Hanji Zoe’s number.  

“I know why you couldn’t find them--the initials on the blueprints,” he said the second she picked up, not giving her a chance to speak.  “You were looking for adults.  Factory workers.  That’s why nothing turned up in your search.”  He took a deep breath, resting his elbows on the table and covering his eyes with his free hand.  “They were kids…you’re looking for two seventeen year olds.  Immigrant kids, I think.” He looked back at the two files on his computer screen.  One with a mutilated hand, one with acid burns around his eyes.  “They caused the explosion at Maria. Bertholdt Hoover and Reiner Braun.”

 

 

 

* * *

**There’s a light at the end of the tunnel…**

Someone considers him nothing more than a piece in a game...but even masters sometimes forget what happens, if a pawn you weren’t watching gets all the way across the board.  When **Strings: A Serial Adventure Story** returns, a pawn sets out to slay a king once far beyond his reach...But even pawns can capture, if they move **_En Passant._**

 

 

* * *

 In case you're interested: Phix's fanart: [X](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/69984947903/based-on-the-awesome-jeanmarco-fic-strings) [X](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/71466944450/strings)

And if you're curious about how Levi came by his cats...[well](http://con-affetto-kiko.tumblr.com/post/70749667456/a-congratulatory-drawing-for-kenjiandcompany-for)...


	11. En Passant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> En Passant is a lesser known chess move exclusive to pawns. Pawns always capture by moving diagonally, but in the opening turns of the game a pawn can capture a piece directly in front of it by moving diagonally, taking the enemy piece "in passing," or en passant. If your opponent isn't ready for it, the move is a great way to completely wreck their strategy.

[ ](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/74861660980/strings-en-passant)

**Chapter 11: _En Passant_**

“ _I’m gonna kill them.”_

“Eren--”

“I’m gonna fucking _kill_ them I swear to god--”

“Eren, will you stop yelling and _think_ for a fucking second?”  Jean sighed.  “They were a couple of eleven year olds, and you think they’re guilty of...of mass murder?”  Eren grumbled something under his breath, but he finally stopped pacing.

Jean shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the cabinet behind him.“Go after the bastard who put ‘em there if you’re so raring to kill something.”  Eren looked down at him, still slumped on the floor, and raised his eyebrows.  Jean smirked weakly.  

“You wanna punch me in the face again?”

Eren actually seemed to consider it for a second...and then he filled a glass from the counter with water and wordlessly handed it to Jean.

“Thanks.”  The cool water stung in his raw throat, but it brought some of the color back to his cheeks.  The cupboard door rattled against his back as Eren joined him on the floor.

“The _hell_ do we do now?” he said into his knees, and he sounded so bewildered and tired and so...so _not Eren_ that Jean nearly dropped the glass. He’d never seen Eren just... _stop_ like this before.  In any one of a dozen lesser circumstances, he’d be inconsolably furious by now, stalking around snarling about a million different courses of action.  He’d want to do _something,_ even if most of his “plans” were certifiable.  He wasn’t supposed to look lost and defeated...he wasn’t, in point of fact, supposed to look like Jean _felt._

Jean pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the light refract off the cut-glass cup in his hands as he tried to think.  He just kept landing on the same desperate thought, over and over... _Marco will be back next week...Marco will be back next week, he’ll know what to do...it’ll be ok once Marco’s back._ Now how to articulate that to Eren in a slightly less pathetic manner…

“I guess we wait it out,” he said finally.  “Survey’s looking for them now...it’s gotta be just a matter of time.”

Eren watched him sidelong for a moment, looking skeptical.  “You trust these Survey guys, huh?”

Jean shrugged.  “Marco does.”

Eren made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort.  “Yeah...so.  You and Marco, huh?”

Jean actually _did_ drop the water glass at that.  “ _How the fuck-”_

“Hickey timing, mostly,” Eren said, with an impressively straight face.  “The goon squad gets called off, no more ‘professional boundaries,’ your neck looks like you got attacked by a vacuum pump...two and two, dude.”

The next few minutes were a complicated scuffle born of Jean trying to simultaneously punch Eren and clap both hands over his neck.  That ended the only way it was ever going to, with Jean once again in a headlock.  (He was becoming something of a connoisseur, although having his head trapped in Eren’s armpit was considerably less pleasant than being pinned against Marco’s chest.)  

“If you stop strangling me I’ll drive you home,” he muttered indistinctly into Eren’s grubby sweatshirt.  Eren glanced up at the tiny kitchen window, being hammered by a blowing mix of snow and ice.  

“Deal.  Mind dropping me off at my mom’s house?”

 

Between the snow and the increasingly icy roads, it took most of an hour to make it out into the suburban sprawl north of the Chicago central.  A porchlight flipped on as Jean finally eased Marco’s car into the narrow driveway, and Eren hesitated halfway out of the car.  

“You can stay, if you want,” he offered awkwardly, shielding his face from the snow.  “Weather’s not gonna get any better…” Jean waved him off.

“I’ll be fine.  This thing’s got cop-car brakes.”

Eren shrugged, _suit yourself,_ and scampered up the slick driveway.  The front door opened as he thumped up the porch steps.  

“Thanks Jean! Drive safe!” Carla Yeager called, bracing herself in the doorway so she could wave with one of the aluminum crutches clamped to both arms.  “Mom, _careful!”_ Eren exclaimed, running forward to wrap an arm around her waist and take the weight off her weak legs.  

Jean waved through the foggy windshield, stomach twisting as he threw the car in reverse.  He knew Eren worried constantly about his mom now that he and Mikasa were out of the house.  Carla had almost completely lost the use of her legs five years ago, when a piece of rubble from the Maria explosion caved in the roof of their little double-wide in the old factory town.  Eren’s dad walked out on them sight-unseen and it was an unspoken truth that the payouts from the Maria fund were the only thing keeping them ahead of a landslide of medical debt.

Because of two kids. _One with a mutilated hand, one with acid burns around his eyes,_ the litany jangled through his head again as he drove through the eerily silent city.  Maria, Maria, it always came back to Maria.  

_“Bzzzz….bzzzzz….Show me how to lie, you’re getting better all the time and turning all against the one is an art that’s hard to teach…”_

Jean wondered briefly if he was hallucinating, before he realized his phone was ringing somewhere on the floor of the car behind him.  A moment later he remembered being extremely drunk and setting “You’re Gonna Go Far Kid” as Armin’s ringtone when they were celebrating his promotion.

“You pick _now_ to call me?” Jean grumbled, slamming on the brakes at a yellow light and fishing around behind his seat for the AWOL phone.

“ _Now dance, fucker, dance, I never had a chance and no one ever knew it was really only yo--One missed call.”_

“Ah, screw it.”  The light turned green and Jean gave up on reaching his phone.  There was _something_ on the floor back there, probably covering his phone...Jean let the car roll forward and dragged it into his lap.  He realized what it was as soon as the scent hit his nose: Marco’s jacket, plain old fleece one he wore around campus to blend in.  

Jean hadn’t realized how tense he was until he felt himself relaxing, tension easing out of his back and shoulders and leaving his muscles feeling loose and shaky.   _Just wait ‘til Marco comes back,_ he told himself.  He parked about a block from his building and gave into the urge to bury his nose in the black fleece.   _He’ll be back next week, he knows how to handle this shit.  Leave it to Marco, and Zoe and Mo Berner...if I can’t trust anyone else I can still trust Marco..._ he shut his eyes and just let himself drift for a moment, breathing in the sharp scent of Marco’s sweat and the cheap-ass citrusy soap he used, the smell he’d come to associate with warmth and stability long before he’d ever kissed him.

His phone beeped in the back seat and Jean realized he was sitting in a freezing cold dark car smelling his boyfriend’s dirty jacket and thinking poetic thoughts about the smell of his sweat.  “The fuck is wrong with me,” he muttered, snatching his phone and climbing out of the car.  He made it about three steps before turning back to grab Marco’s jacket.

The beep was a text from Armin: **_hey sorry didnt realize how late it was. ill be at the office all day tomorrow come by whenever_**.  Jean frowned.  The day after Thanksgiving and he was _working?_ And a full day, no less...how could a branch-office administrator be _that_ busy?  Jean wondered again about the wisdom of dragging Armin into this spiderweb.  Unlike Jean, or even Eren and Mikasa, Armin had no safety net outside the company.  The Maria trust fund that kept Eren and Mikasa in school was guaranteed by an outside non-profit, but Armin’s job was all he had.  

_He doesn’t need to know the information’s going to Survey...and I’m not doing anything illegal anyway…and my dad probably told himself he was doing those kids a favor by giving them jobs._

_Kirstein corporation, rationalizing awful shit since 1999. Keeping it in the family…_

Jean steadfastly avoided the kitchen and the godforsaken brown jar hidden in a drawer, making a beeline for his bedroom.  He kicked off his shoes and collapsed backwards onto his bed, still holding onto Marco’s jacket like a teddy bear.  (His _actual_ teddy bear was respectfully housed in a disused dresser drawer and came out only in the most dire of circumstances.  Usually four am with a term paper due at eight.)

_Just hold out ‘til Marco gets back...I can figure it out when Marco gets back, it’ll be okay…_

 

 

 

* * *

It took Jean a while to drag himself out of bed the following morning (afternoon), feeling drained and sluggish.  He took one look at the coating of ice on every car outside and decided to suck it up and walk to the little branch office, cutting through whatever university buildings were still unlocked during the break.  The storm had blown over, but it was cold enough that throwing Marco’s jacket on under his own coat made _total_ sense…

He’d texted Armin when he set out, but he got no reply and hadn’t really expected one.  When Armin got absorbed in something, he’d block out phone calls, conversation, the need to eat, and on at least one occasion tornado sirens.  At least he’d left the doors unlocked.

“Hey, Armin!   _Armin!”_ No answer, even after the wind blew the doors shut behind him with a resounding _bang._ The foyer was dark, but there were lights on in the main office.  Jean shouldered his way through the glass doors...and nearly lost his balance as the door skewed sideways under his weight, the top hinge smashed clean off the frame.

“Armin? _Holy shit…”_  

The office was trashed.  Armin’s half-circle desk facing the doors was swept clean, drawers pulled out and mostly upside down on the floor.  His monitor dangled over the edge, held off the floor by the cords, and the tower next to his desk had been gutted, RAM and hard drive gone.  Some of the pretty wood shelving units around the walls were knocked over or skewed, and they were all nearly empty, surrounded by drifts of loose papers and books.

Armin sat in the middle of the floor, leaning against his scuffed desk and ringed by stacks of (shudder) green Kirstein Co. ledgers.  As Jean stared at the wrecked room he slammed the ledger in his lap shut and tossed it with apparent purpose onto one of the stacks, before snatching another one.  

“Did this place get _robbed?”_ Jean asked, looking at the empty computer tower.  “Dude, is it safe for you to be here alone?  Have you called the police--”

Armin cut him off with a mirthless laugh.  “Nothing the police don’t already know about.” He looked exhausted, wearing jeans and a t-shirt (almost unheard of for him) that looked like they’d been slept in, maybe more than once.  

“Ok, so you _did_ call the police?” Uneasy and unsure what to do, Jean settled for walking behind the desk and pulling the monitor back up.

Armin laughed again and got to his feet, shoving books off his lap.  “We didn’t get robbed, we got _raided. Every_ Kirstein office, but they’ve got more than one administrator...they even broke into Rose.Dollars to donuts someone managed to get the Maria case open again.”  He sat down on the edge of the desk and ran his hands through his tangled hair.  “Marco didn’t say anything?”

Jean’s blood went cold.  “This was _Survey?”_ This brutal, destructive raid was _Survey?_ This was Marco and Sasha and Zoe and Mo? It didn’t seem possible.  “What were they looking for?”

“Hell if I know,” Armin sighed.  “I haven’t even figured out what they _took_ yet, other than the hard drives.  Oh, you don’t have to do that--”

“You think I’m gonna stand here and do nothing?” Jean growled, heaving the heavy tower back up to the desk.  “You look like shit, man.  You should go get some sleep.”  

He’d expected Armin to argue, but he nodded tiredly, rubbing his temples.  “You’re probably right…” he smirked.  “Not like this mess is going anywhere.  I guess I was trying to distract myself...if the company gets taken to trial again the first thing they’re gonna do is cut costs, and the Eren thing--”

“What Eren thing?”  Jean tugged a stray envelope out of the computer’s case (it was _really_ wedged in there) and started trying to fit the cover back together.

“He didn’t tell you?  He’s dropping out of school.”  Armin shook his head, sorting through his stacks of books again.  “Goodbye, sixty grand scholarship.  That idiot…”

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,” Jean grumbled.  “I was with him last freaking _night!”_

“I just heard this morning,” Armin said with a shrug.  “Don’t take it personal.”  He looked up then, and grinned, although it didn’t quite hide the lingering anger.  “Guess what else I heard this morning?”

Jean froze. “ _He didn’t.”_  Armin laughed, looking a little more like himself.  

“Take your coat off, I wanna see your neck.”

Jean wordlessly folded his coat collar up, glaring.  “You’re no fun,” Armin whined.  “Anyway.  What’d you want to ask me about?”

Jean blinked.  He’d actually forgotten about his original mission, looking for payroll info...for Zoe.  Why would she  ask for his help, if she knew they already had a warrant?

“It...it can wait,” he said carefully, brain racing.   _All thanks to you,_ Zoe had said.   _All the--the insights,_ with that weird hesitation.   _Shit._  “Hey, Armin...when was the raid? Just last night?”

“Hm? Oh, no, last Friday.  I’ve been at this all week.”

 _Friday._ The night Garrison went after the gunman, the night he’d told Marco he loved him.

And the night _before_ he talked to Zoe at Survey.   _Well, I know one thing they_ didn’t _get in the raid..._ he thought.  Something crinkled, and he realized he was unconsciously squeezing the shit out of the envelope he’d pulled out of the computer case.  

“Do anything for Thanksgiving?” Armin asked.  Jean shook himself, and started gathering up the loose files on the floor.

“ Just skyped with my mom, we’re not really big on Thanksgiving.” No point dumping all the weird Survey stuff on Armin.  He had a pretty good idea of what they’d used to get their warrant now...  “What about you?  Spend it with your granddad?”  

“Yeah, something like that.”

They worked in silence for awhile, and Jean took off his coat as he warmed up.  He’d repopulated about a third of the shelves when Armin stood up and stretched with a groan.  “I can’t see straight anymore.  I’m gonna take your advice and go sleep for a week.”  He turned around and Jean remembered too late that his somewhat polka-dot patterned neck was no longer protected.

“ _Wow_ he wasn’t kidding!” Armin laughed as Jean blushed.  “Must’ve come as a shock to Marco, huh?”

“You could say that…” Jean rubbed the back of his neck and smiled despite the embarrassment.  “I mean, he kinda dropped a hint, sort of, I don’t think he meant to but I sort of had an idea that...I don’t think he was expecting me to jump on him though.”  

Armin went very quiet for a minute.  “When you say he dropped a hint...is that...did he say that while he was still protecting you?”

“Hm? Yeah.  It was that morning you came over after the Halloween party, actually.”  Jean tilted his head, watching Armin’s face as his old friend bit his lip.  

“You’re sure about that?” He said slowly.  “Marco told you he...he had feelings for you while acting as your bodyguard?”  

“Yeah, basically.  It’s not exactly unheard of--what’s up?”  To anyone else, Armin would have looked perfectly normal, but Jean knew him well enough to recognize his ‘everything’s totally fine’ mask, the front he put up when something was weighing on his mind.

“Eh, never mind.  My brain’s not working right.”  Armin waved a hand dismissively and gathered up a few of the green ledgers.  “Want a ride home?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Armin went to get his coat, picking his way through the chaotic office, and Jean sat down on the desk.  His hand landed on the scrunched envelope and he picked it up guiltily, hoping it was nothing important.  It was already opened and ripped nearly in half, some old medical bill dated...four years ago...Jean rolled his eyes.  Armin never threw anything away.  He moved to throw it away, but a scribbled note on the torn edge caught his eye.

_Annie 4873_

_Rei/Bert 87233677_

Jean tasted blood as he bit through his lower lip, staring at the names.  The last few numbers were torn off, but at that moment he would have bet his life they were phone numbers.  And 872 was the Chicago area code...

Jean swallowed his guilt and shoved the crumpled envelope in his pocket.

 

 

 

* * *

The envelope went in the bottom drawer next to The Jar and the three green ledgers, and Jean spent the rest of his Thanksgiving break ordering pizzas and avoiding his kitchen like a plague house.  He retreated to the deserted university library most days, ostensibly to study for the finals that loomed a mere two weeks after break ended.  Inevitably he ended up in old news archives, reading everything he could find about Maria.  Endless speculation about the cause of the explosion, a few dead-end exposes about the disastrous cleanup operation...but no mention, _anywhere,_ of the factory employing children.

There was no word from Survey, and Jean suspected that Mo Berner was intentionally leaving him out of the loop.  So he studied, and read grainy scans of old newspaper articles, and kept counting down the days until Marco returned.  

The ice melted off in a brief warm snap before the first week of December brought the brutal cold back with a vengeance.  Jean went back to the hospital for another round of x-rays, and left with his black plastic wrist-brace replaced with a soft, velcro one and the last of the scabs peeled off his arms and shoulders.

And then, just after classes started and a few days before Marco was due back from Belgium, Armin called.

“‘Ey,” Jean answered his phone indistinctly through a mouthful of slightly frozen Subway.  The temperature hadn’t stopped dropping in a week, and three of his professors had completely cancelled class, telling their students to stay indoors.

“Jean...we need to talk.”  Armin’s voice was so soft Jean barely heard him, and he swallowed in a hurry, sitting up straighter.  “Can you make it to Corvi’s?”

Corvi’s was a coffee shop they frequented, not far from Jean’s apartment.  “I can make it, but that’s an awful long way for you...you can’t just tell me over the phone?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.  “I-I’m sorry Jean,” Armin stammered at last.  “I think you should hear this face to face.  I’m already there.”  He was hoarse, and there was a tremor in his voice.  Did something else happen?

“I’m on my way.” Jean snatched his coat and Marco’s ever-present jacket, crazy scenarios swirling through his head.

His worry only intensified when he burst through the door of the coffee shop, face numb and ears burning, and Armin stood up and handed him a cardboard cup, tugging him over to an out of the way table.

Jean sniffed the coffee and winced.  It was peppermint...Armin had nursed him through more than a few breakups and rejections on peppermint mochas over the years they’d been friends.  Armin didn’t make gestures like that casually.

“Just...just hear me out, okay?” Armin said softly as Jean gave him a dirty look.  “‘Cause I have a feeling you’re gonna hate my guts in about five minutes.”  He stared at his hands on the glass tabletop for a moment, chewing on his already cracked and scabbed lips...whatever was on his mind, it was eating him from the inside out.  

“Spit it out already.”

Armin met his eyes for a split-second before he looked away again.  “It’s about Marco...look, I’m sorry ok?  What you said at the office...it didn’t sound right to me.  I-I did some research about conflicts of interest...Jean, if he had feelings for you-- _that’s fine, seriously it is--”_ he blurted as Jean opened his mouth, brows snapping together in a scowl, “But everything I could find says he should have resigned on the spot.  If something had happened to you, he could’ve been charged with reckless endangerment.”

“What are you saying?” Jean whispered, trying his hardest to pretend he couldn’t see where this was going.  

“Tell me it never felt weird to you,” Armin said, leaning forward, hands flat on the table.  “Your dad goes to Garrison for protection and they hand him over to Survey? An _intelligence_ organization?  And the _day_ the threat on you gets called off suddenly the Maria case is wide open and Survey has warrants for absolutely everything.  No, _listen,_ I know you’ve got it bad for him, and I’m not saying his feelings for you aren’t real, but he’s _lying_ to you!”  Armin’s voice rose and a few heads turned their way.  He blushed, and his voice fell back to an intense whisper.  “Jean, Marco’s not a protective agent.  He’s intelligence.  He’s a _spy.”_

Jean couldn’t breath.  The words _there’s no way_ lined themselves up on his tongue, but his mind was already racing ahead, remembering...how _different_ Marco had been from the impersonal protector he’d been expecting, how he’d constantly asked questions, encouraged him to open up, drawing out his weaknesses...all the rules (and _laws)_ he must have broken showing Jean classified evidence, so that he’d fill in all the gaps…

He looked up to find Armin watching his face, tears in the corners of his wide eyes.  “ _I’m sorry,”_ he said, reached out like he wanted to take Jean’s hand and then seemed to think better of it, snatching his hand back.  He set a few sheets of paper on the table between them.  “I looked him up...he’s a federal agent, technically, so all this is public record if you know where to look.  His field licence expired--”

Jean let out a sigh of relief.  “Well _yeah,_ he was in the hospital, he got freaking _shot_ on his last assignment.  It just got re-issued before--”

“It _didn’t.”_ Armin all but snapped.  Jean broke off, staring at him in shock.  “It didn’t,” Armin repeated, softer, not meeting his eyes.  “Marco’s field licence expired in 2010, and it was never re-issued.  He’s got the right training, but he was never cleared for active duty, he never even cleared psychological evaluation.  As far as the record’s concerned, he’s not even licensed to carry a weapon.”

There were...ghosts of emotion, like lightning high up in the clouds, anger confusion pain, but all he really felt was numb.   _That can’t be true...that can’t be true, he saved me, he risked his life for me...he--_

“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you,” Armin said gently, all but echoing his thoughts.  “I...I just thought you should hear it from me--”

“ _Shut up.”_   More heads turned this time, and Armin just shut his eyes, biting his lip again.  Jean stood up too fast, slamming his chair back.  “I mean...I’m sorry, I just...I c-can’t.”

Armin ran a hand through his hair.  “It’s okay, Jean,” he said, voice oddly flat.  The rest of the apology tangled on Jean’s tongue, and he spun on his heel and ran out of the coffee shop.

He managed to keep it together almost all the way home, lost in the fog of shock and confusion and still carrying his cold, undrunk peppermint mocha.   _It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you..._ leave it to Armin to say the _one_ thing, however well meaning, that would get under his skin and stick like a fish hook…

_Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you._

_He just doesn’t trust you._

Jean whirled around and threw the cup of coffee across the road with all his strength.  It burst open against a lamp post and Jean bit his tongue, breath hitching in his chest.  He stared blankly at the hardening puddle of  coffee splashed across the freezing pavement, until his face went numb and his eyes burned from the wind.

 

 

 

* * *

He was asleep on the couch when the rock cracked against the window.  Jean jolted awake, heart pounding, in time for the second _thunk._ He sat up blearily, rubbing his eyes, and peered out the window.

“ _Fuck.”_ Jean’s head started to pound and he leaned it into the freezing glass, gritting his teeth.  His traitor heart fluttered at the sight of the figure standing under the lamp in front of his building...back two days early.  He could have used those two days to convince himself everything was still ok.

“I moved my tickets to get out before a big storm, so I thought I’d surprise you!”  Marco called, scampering towards the steps as Jean came outside.  He was grinning and breathless from the wind and he looked beautiful.  Jean stayed quiet at the top of the steps, chest clenching as Marco slowed down, smile fading.

“What’s wrong?” he said, looking up at him from the sidewalk.  Jean just watched his face, and Marco’s eyes very slowly went wide, lighting up with a kind of fear he hadn’t seen since Halloween night, in the moments after he broke away from a desperate kiss.  “Jean?”

“Why don’t you have a field license?” Jean asked, and Marco just seemed to break.

“ _Shit,”_ he whispered, closing his eyes, his face looked tired and hollow and Jean’s first instinct was to jump down the stairs and hug him, run his fingers through his windblown hair and make him smile again, but the numb confusion kept him in place.  Marco opened his eyes again, and for the first time in Jean’s memory he looked absolutely at a loss.  “Jean...it’s...it’s a long story, _shit,_ I--”

“You aren’t a bodyguard, are you?  Not really.”  Jean  came down the stairs hesitantly, digging his hands into his pockets.  “I should’ve figured...they’d never let someone with that kind of baggage back on the horse so soon.  You’re…you’re intelligence.  I’m not a client, I’m just an easy link to my dad... _god,_ and I thought you actually cared…”

“Jean…” Marco reached out, trying to catch his hands, but Jean twisted away and he backed off, holding up his hands in surrender.  “Jean, _fuck, Jean please it’s not like that--”_

“I know about the warrants,” Jean said.  “Armin told me Survey raided his office...all the offices.  You even broke into _Rose,_ and that’s twelve hundred people out of work.”

“What...Rose?  The other chemical plant?”  Marco stepped back, brows furrowed in confusion.  “There was a break-in?  That wasn’t Survey...Erwin just wants Maria, Jean, he wants _justice._ And we can _do_ it, we’ve actually got a chance, because you gave us--”  Jean burst out laughing, and Marco broke off, looking scared.  Jean shook his head, leaning on the railing, and tried to pull back the laughter before it turned into tears.

“ _Gave_ you? _Fuck,_ Marco, you played me like a violin.  Was _any_ of it real?” Jean asked, hating himself when his voice broke.  He _wanted_ to be angry, he wanted to hate Marco, scream in his face and shove him away but all he could come up with was the endless, childlike feeling of loneliness.  “ _Any_ of it...y-you said you’d spend the rest of your life with me, you said you were there for me...what’d they tell you, just go ahead and _fuck_ him, if that’s what it takes to make him give it all up?”

“ _No!”_ Marco yelled.  He was crying now, openly, his voice choked with the tears.  “Erwin tried to pull me _off,_ he thought I was getting too attached.  God, yes, I’m a spy, I was supposed to feed information back to Survey, b-but...Jean, it wasn’t all a lie, I _swear_ to you...I was half dead before I met you, I--please, _please_ believe me…” he met Jean’s eyes desperately, holding out a hand, although he didn’t try to touch him again.  Jean stepped back, shaking his head, knowing he couldn’t speak without crying, and Marco closed his eyes and turned away, hand shaking as he lowered it.  

“I-I want to,” Jean stuttered, taking another step back.  “I wanna believe you Marco, _god_ I do--”

Marco covered his face with his hands.  “ _I love you,”_ he choked, crying so hard he could barely get the words out.

“I...I…” Jean gritted his teeth.  “ _I can’t.”_ He turned away, back towards the dark steps.  Marco collapsed backwards against the railing, all but doubled over by the silent sobs wrenching his body and all Jean could think was how easy it would be to turn around, run to him and fall into his hold, he could go back and Marco would take him, he’d still love him and all he had to do was turn around…

He kept walking.

He couldn’t resist looking out the window, once he’d made it back to his living room and bolted the doors thoroughly behind him.  Marco was gone, and Jean sank down to the floor under the window (add the couch to things in his apartment he could barely stand to look at) and just sat in his dark living room, staring at the wall.

He wished he hadn’t thrown away the peppermint mocha.  

Eventually physical functions took over, and Jean dragged himself to his bed and flopped onto it fully clothed, determined to just stay there for the foreseeable future.

He was still wearing Marco’s jacket.  

He was reasonably certain he had matches in the kitchen somewhere...but at the moment, leaving his bed seemed like an impossible effort.  Jean curled up and buried his nose in the soft fleece collar.  The closest thing he’d had to a plan was _wait for Marco to get back._ And now Marco was back...and he didn’t have the faintest idea what to do.  Beyond fall asleep and hope he didn’t wake up.

It couldn’t precisely be called a stroke of luck, but the universe _did_ eventuallyintervene to help him decide what to do.

Three days later, Eren Yeager disappeared.

 

 

 

* * *

**The Board is Set**

And the pieces are moving! But though a game of chess may have only two sides, love and war are rarely so simple...in the next installment of **Strings: A Serial Adventure Story** , our hero sets up to unravel the web of the Maria Factory once and for all, meeting his unknown enemies in their own shady world.  Intrigue, desperation, despair, must all be overcome with determination and guile.  And if you can do all of that,  _well..._ **You're Gonna Go Far, Kid.** **  
**

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flips over table*  
> *hides behind it*
> 
> Brief Edit: Happy Birthday to Sinelanguage, who can't read this until tomorrow which is her birthday so I'm just gonna leave this here. She is the extremely talented author of give and take and Interstate 80 and has been with Strings since the very beginning. Happy Birthday Sine, I even got you a present! IT WAS PAIN. (I love your face darling, pleasedon'tkillme)
> 
> 'Nother edit:
> 
>  
> 
> [ **HIGH PITCHED SQUEALING** ](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/74861660980/strings-en-passant)
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://phixuscarus.tumblr.com/post/74861660980/strings-en-passant)
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter 11: _En Passant_**


	12. You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> First off let me say: TWO THOUSAND HITS IN FOUR DAYS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I LOVE YOU ALL, and a big ol' thank you for not lynching me after chapter 11.
> 
> Recommended soundtrack for your reading pleasure:  
> If you like it orchestral and atmospheric: [Like a Dog Chasing Cars](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0ynjjk2c7Y)
> 
>  If you like lyrics: [Bad Blood (piano version)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7MzFzsoziE)
> 
>  The chapter title is taken from [This song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DTLcR5awn0), which you may recognize as Armin's ringtone.
> 
> As this chapter will demonstrate, I should've just called this thing Cell Phones and had done with it.

**Chapter 12: You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid**

The touch was a gentle one, drifting down the length of his side and curling in to wrap around his waist.  It could have been affectionate, innocent even, if not for the purpose in the movement, the heat and intensity of the hands on his sensitive skin.  

Jean reacted slowly to the sensation, still warm and heavy with sleep, soft breaths growing deeper as thehands continued to move, dragging a heavy caress across his chest and belly (and of course he noticed how fast that would break Jean down, he always noticed, knew all the places he wanted to be touched without Jean ever saying a word.)

The arm around his waist tightened, pulling him back into the warm, hard body behind him.  Jean gasped at the sudden movement, head falling back and hot lips found his vulnerable neck, he bit back a whimper as the kisses sank through his skin and became a crackling wave of heat that shot straight to his dick.  

He was being held so _tight,_ arms pinned to his sides and a catch in his breath from the pressure.  He twisted against the grip, clenching his teeth in frustration, arched his back only to be jerked down, muscles flexing against his twitching back slick with the sweat forming between them.  

Jean rolled his hips, fighting the broken moans catching in his throat, searching for some kind of friction to ease the growing ache, heavy breathing becoming desperate gasps.  He felt the smile, a warm curve against his neck before a quick sting of teeth and the kisses trailed up under his chin, along his jaw and the lines of his cheekbones, felt the vibrations of a low chuckle in his chest.  He turned his head, trying to catch those lips with his own, trying to get a taste of his mouth, his skin, something _anything--_

The hand caressing his chest moved up and turned his face away, long cool fingers over his eyes pulling his head back, taught shoulder tendons pulling as his head wa tipped back and the stinging, biting kisses on his skin returned.  He managed to lift his head up, twist it to place a fleeting kiss on the soft skin inside the arm holding him back and when it shifted away he whimpered audibly, unable to hold it back anymore.  

The pressure lessened, just a little, fingertips traced the curve of his stomach, along the inside of his hipbone, sending shivers through his twitching muscles...another half-stifled moan, another fleeting touch but the second he twisted, bucked up trying to find that touch it was gone, his hips were pinned again and a hard bite stung his over-sensitized neck and he understood that if he wanted release he had to ask, he’d been rewarded the few times he hadn’t held back but if he wanted to be touched he’d have to beg…

He stopped fighting, tried to control his heaving breaths and he twisted his head to the side, pressing his face into the warm shoulder holding up his limp frame, slick with sweat.  “ _Please,”_ he stuttered, breathless and barely audible, felt another chuckle shiver through his body.  “ _God, please...p-please just--”_

The arm on his waist tightened, flipped him over, strong, gentle fingers stroked soothingly through his hair and he tipped his head back, shaking, to see Marco looking down at him with fire in his eyes.

Marco said something, in the lilting Belgian accent that crept into his voice when his emotions took control, Jean heard the words but the meaning slipped through his mind, Marco was telling him something important but try as he might he couldn’t understand.  He clutched at Marco trying to speak but the words wouldn’t come and--

 

\-- and Jean opened his eyes and stared dully at the ceiling, breath still coming in shaky gasps.

His subconscious was getting _really_ creative.  

He rolled onto his side, curling around the ache low in his stomach, and glared at the bottle of vodka on the floor next to his bed. So much for blacking himself out; as far as he could tell the alcohol just kept him asleep while his libido took control of his brain.

His phone was buzzing, somewhere, wherever he’d last dropped it.  He was kind of surprised it still had battery.  He hadn’t touched it in days, not that it mattered.

He’d been afraid (and maybe he’d hoped just as much) that Marco would come after him, but he’d kept his distance.  He hadn’t even returned for his car.  He had almost a month of leave left, and when he wasn’t trying to sleep through his depression Jean ran himself in an endless spiral, determined not to worry about him and berating himself because he couldn’t think about anything else.  Sleeping passed the time, at least, but sleeping left him open to the dreams, and the cycle restarted from the top.

Armin had likewise gone silent, no doubt knee deep in the mess Survey left behind.  The Rose factory was still shut down after the raid, and as the factor sat empty, the scattered offices scrambled to deal with the fallout of the shutdown and twelve hundred displaced workers...robbing Jean of the one confidant who could have _possibly_ understood his situation.

Jean burrowed down under his blankets ( _You’re so snuggly! Marco laughed, close to his ear)_ as his phone stopped ringing, only to hear it buzz to life a moment later.

 _“Witch burnings,”_ he snarled to himself and lurched out of bed, noticing with disgust that his legs were stiff and sore from disuse.

 _“What,”_ he growled into his phone, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Did Eren spend the night at your place?” Mikasa asked, and Jean almost hung up on her.  Something in her voice stopped him, though...she sounded too casual.  Friendly. _Fake._ As far as Mikasa was concerned, tact was for people who couldn’t jump kick a board seven feet of the ground.  She didn’t waste breath on pleasantries, and if she sounded casual it was because she was covering something else.

Mikasa was _scared._

“Haven’t seen him since break,” Jean said, frowning.  If the classes he had with Eren hadn’t been cancelled Jean had skipped them.  “Dropped him off at your mom’s Tuesday night.”

“I _know,”_ Mikasa snapped, the friendly tone starting to slip out of her voice.  “I thought he was there but Mom hasn’t seen him since Friday...he hasn’t called…”

“His phone died?” Jean suggested weakly.  He could practically _feel_ the death glare coming through the phone; there were couples married sixty years who didn’t keep tabs on each other like Eren and Mikasa.  They’d both lost too much to risk each other.

“Something was eating him,” Mikasa said softly.  “I couldn’t get it out of him...he kept telling me nothing was wrong.  Did he…?” she trailed off helplessly and Jean’s blood very slowly turned ice cold.

_That idiot.  That goddamn suicidal idiot.  What did you do…_

“I’ll ask around,” he said, amazed at how cool his voice came out.  “Did you call Armin?” Apparently he’d picked up some of Marco’s lying skills.

“He put me on hold,” Mikasa replied dryly, sounding a little more like herself.  Jean rolled his eyes.

“I’ll go throw a brick through his window.”  He heaved a sigh, scraping a hand through his sweaty hair.  “I need to talk to him anyway.”

 

One much needed shower later, Jean stood in the doorway of his kitchen, glaring at the bottom drawer.  He was _sick_ of being scared, being guilty, sick of the endless fucking _secrets. (It wasn’t all a lie, I swear…)_ It was time to come clean.  Someone in Armin’s office knew what happened at Maria, someone who’d grabbed an old envelope off a desk to scribble down two phone numbers, and Armin deserved to know.

Still, once he’d jerked open the drawer, he hesitated...somehow, walking across central Chicago with two human fingers (child sized, no less) in a jar didn’t sound like a good life choice.  The abused envelope went back in his pocket, and Jean snapped quick pictures of the jar and the ledger with his shitty phone camera.  It’d have to do.  

He got a text from Mikasa as he pulled on his coat: **_hasnt been to any classes, missed ochem lab._** Jean’s knuckles turned white around his phone - missing a lab was an automatic letter grade down at Eren’s level.  He was already renowned amongst the chemistry students for showing up to one dripping blood, with what later turned out to be a fractured jaw...if he missed a lab, it was because he was physically incapable of getting to the building.

 ** _Dont tehy have makeuos 4 dead week?_** He replied, hoping the typos from his shaking fingers wouldn’t give away his nerves.  Jean was well aware of how agonizingly dependent the siblings were on each other, although he’d always downplayed it for Eren’s sake.  There was no way Mikasa didn’t know what Eren’s absence could mean, but if he could give her _some_ hope, something to let her be just a little less scared--

 _You’re doing it to her..._ The thought arose unbidden as he ran out the door into the blasting wind.   _The same thing Marco did to you._

 _It’s different,_ he told himself stubbornly, diving through the door of the art building, lungs burning from the cold.   _It’s definitely different.  Any minute now Eren’s going to get his stupid ass arrested for trying to punch out my dad, we’ll go bail him out and get him committed somewhere nice and warm...he’s fine, he’ll be_ fine…

 _Or maybe you’ve always known Mikasa’s stronger than you, she’s_ so _much stronger than you and you can’t handle the thought that something might break her down…_

With that ugly little thought buzzing around his head, Jean buttoned his collar up over his nose and dove back out into the blowing snow.  It occurred to him to wonder, as icey snow stung his cheeks, if he’d slept through a few weather warnings in his three day funk.  

He glanced up and down the mostly empty street, and then crossed it at a dead run and took the office stairs three at a time.  He bent his head, trying to shoulder his way through the double doors, only to be greeted by the rattle of a deadbolt.  

“You are _kidding_ me,” he grumbled, squinting through the glass into the dark foyer beyond.  “Armin!  Armin, come _onnn…_ I didn’t think I’d _actually_ have to throw a brick through your window…”  He flattened himself against the door, for what little protection from the wind it offered, and dug through the loose contents of his pockets until he came up with the featureless white rectangle he’d been looking for: the access card Armin had given him.  He waved it hopefully at the scanner set in the brickwork, and was rewarded with an incredibly welcome beep and click as the doors unlocked.

He stumbled into the office, nose dripping and ears numb.  “Armin? You here?”  The entire building looked deserted, lit only by the dull gray light filtering through the doors.  Jean flicked the light switch on and off a few times, frowning as nothing responded.  The main office was considerably cleaner than it had been the last time he’d seen it, although the computer tower was messily disassembled on the floor again, for some reason.  And no Armin. _Shit._ Jean peeled off his wet, snow crusted coat and sat on the edge of Armin’s desk with a sigh.  One of these days he’d have to come up with a plan of action that didn’t involve dumping all his problems on someone else…

He dug out the abused envelope and stared at it moodily.  Maybe he should just leave it...it was a personal document after all, even if it was four years out of date.  At the same time, he was loath to let those numbers out of his sight, and unsure who to trust with them.  Where the _hell_ was Armin…

The envelope slipped out of his fingers and fluttered to the floor, and Jean realized that in his nervous fiddling he’d managed to tear the back even further, leaving him with just the folded bill hospital bill.  As he leaned down to pick up the envelope, Jean felt his instincts sparking, that tiny, obnoxious little sensation, like water dripping on his forehead, that he’d learned to trust and dread in equal measure.

It was the texture.  The envelope was crumpled, yeah, but the bill itself...it had that soft, cottony feel to it, like the pages of a book on the verge of falling apart.  Like it had been handled, held and dog-eared and folded and unfolded for years. And definitely _not_ like an old document lost in a drawer or a shelf would feel.

Jean gave into temptation and unfolded it.

_Total Accumulation of Charges for Medical Care: **Artlet, Abel E.**_

_Admitted to care: 11-22-2007, Emergency Clinic_

_Discharge: N/A_

_Patient Declared Dead 12-13-2008; ToD 14:37_

A dense list of itemized charges followed in tight columns.  Jean read his way down the list.  It wasn’t hard to follow...patient admitted showing shortness of breath and elevated blood pressure, complications from respiratory infection...pulmonary edema, permanent brain damage, comatose state…and then months upon months until the final charge: _mortuary service._

Abel Artlet.  Abel Artlet was Armin’s granddad.  A janitor at Maria, admitted to the hospital with a severe respiratory infection.  A few months after the deadly cleanup operation.  

Jean buried his face in his hands, the bill crumpling against his forehead.   _“Why didn’t you tell me?”_ he growled through gritted teeth.  “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me?”  He’d _asked,_ he’d fucking _asked,_ not even a week ago, like the fucking stupid awful excuse for a friend that he was.

_What about you? Spend Thanksgiving with your grandad?_

_Yeah, something like that._

And that still wasn’t the worst part, the part making his head spin so hard his vision was foggy around the edges.  

The final tally of the hundreds of medical charges was six figures, _well_ over half a million dollars.  Sections for medical coverage were blank.

And it was paid. In full.

Jean slammed the heel of his hand into his temple, reveling in the sick shock it sent through his throbbing head. _Idiot.  Idiot idiot idiot fucking idiot, it was staring you in the face and you were too busy pining over Marco..._

Armin had figured it out.  It _had_ to have been him, piecing the whole picture together from the old records, specifically designed to keep the inconsistencies buried.  And yet his discoveries wound up hidden in the abandoned offices, his grandfather’s medical debts wiped clean, and suddenly there was someone on the inside dealing Kirstein Co. products under the table.

He flipped over the envelope, insides on fire, and stared at the smudged name scribbled across the edge.   _Annie. Annie Leonhardt._

She was blackmailing him.

The clusterfuck that was the OHSA lawsuit would have left him with nothing, a low-paying office job and six figures of debt.  Victims of the explosion were covered, but victims of the cleanup operation? _No evidence of wrong-doing._

Keep your mouth shut about the production records, keep your mouth shut about the kids, _especially_ keep your mouth shut about unlicensed security present at the site of the explosion...maybe let a barrel of methylamine or an explosive precursor slip out of the warehouse once in awhile, and we’ll make your debt go away and you keep your cushy administrator job.

As for the two other people who could place her at the scene...Jean shut his eyes, trying to remember how the equipment was hooked up on the factory floor.  She must have known where the exhaust vents ran, known where to look for ‘debris’ sucked into the plumbing and protected from the blast.  Two fingers, DNA evidence to link a terrified kid to the explosion. And how hard would it be to convince that kid he could be punished for it...convince an eleven-year-old boy he was guilty of mass murder.

Jean had been telling people for _years_ that he hated his father, so often that the word started to lose meaning.

He’d never imagined that hatred like _this_ was possible.

A cell phone buzzed.

 _Okay, hatred towards a_ person, Jean amended mentally, diving for his sodden coat.

“What.”

“Jean? Oh thank god,” Sasha said in his ear.  She sounded stressed, a tone he wasn’t used to hearing in her warm voice. “Are you at your apartment?”

“Wha-I-no, I’m...I’m on campus,” Jean replied, unsure why he was lying.  It practically felt like a reflex by this point, and Marco’s too-bright, desperate eyes flashed across his memory.

“Oh...kay,” Sasha said, slowly.  “The alarm on your front door just went off. It still alerts  us.  The sensors say the door wasn’t forced, but no one disarmed the alarm.  Does anyone else have a key to your apartment?”

Jean frowned in confusion.   _Marco,_ he thought, but Marco knew about the alarm.  Hell, Marco had _installed_ the alarm.  “No-o…wait, _fuck!”_ the realization felt like an icepick through his temple. “ _Eren._ I gave Eren my spare key, last year... _shit!”_

“Jean, just stay where you are--” Sasha began, but Jean was already out the door, throwing on his coat as he went.  

 

 _Annie.  Annie fucking Leonhardt. She found out,_ he thought frantically.   _Eren knows everything I do, he knows I’ve got the fingers…_

_...why would she go after Eren and not just come straight at me…_

He was right on the edge, he could _feel_ it.  There were still gaps, pieces of the puzzle he didn’t have, but the whole picture was right in front of him now, a big black hulking _thing_ like the silhouette of Maria against the dark sky, just _waiting_ for the sun to break the horizon.

 _Why threaten me..._ was she planning to blackmail his father, too? But that would be an empty threat at best, if he called her bluff one of the names she’d be revealing was her _own..._ his heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out even the shrieking storm winds, as Jean slammed into the stairwell of his apartment building.

The first thing he noticed was the phone, if only because he nearly stepped on it.  An iPhone, a few models out of date, lying in the landing of his floor.  The screen was crushed, probably by a bootheel, but the little decal on the back casing was unmistakeable. _One of those weird-ass animes nobody watches but you,_ Jean thought as he picked up Eren’s destroyed phone, heart speeding up yet again.

He’d half expected his apartment to be destroyed, but the door was locked again, the living room in more or less the same state of general mess he’d left it in…

And the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinets lay on its side on the linoleum, completely empty.

Jean scraped his half-frozen hands through his hair, trying to get his breathing back under control.  Too late, he was _always_ too late, just one step too far behind.  Annie had the  ledgers. She had Eren, she had the jar...in about four hours she’d managed to reclaim every inch of the ground Survey had gained from Marco’s investigation.

But she didn’t know he had the envelope.  She didn’t know about the numbers.  Her phone number was missing too many digits, too many possibilities, but the other phone number was only missing two.  

 

* * *

He rapidly lost track of time as he dialed his way through the possibilities, _7721, 7722, 7723,_ awkward wrong number and disconnected lines blurring together.  He was somewhere in the forties now, the other end ringing in that staticky, broken way of cheap cellphones and bad coverage…

The call connected, but Jean was greeted by nothing but silence...and then a muffled voice in the background.

_“Is it Annie?”_

Jean very slowly sat forward, as though moving too fast might break the connection.  A very soft voice, tinged with a Slavic accent, said “Hello? Who is this please?”

“Bertholdt?” Jean whispered.

There was a hiss of indrawn breath, and the line went dead.

“ _Shit,”_ Jean muttered.  “ _Stupid stupid stupid…”_ he flipped his phone’s keyboard open and began to type.

 ** _Im sorry i didnt mean to scare you. My name is Jean Kirstein_** He paused for a moment, trying to think of what to say that wouldn’t spook the poor kid further.

**_I know someone is hurting you. I want to help_ **

He didn’t have to wait long.  Jean hit _answer_ the second his phone started to buzz again.

“How the _hell_ did you get this number?” The voice was different, lower and stronger, the accent less noticeable.

“Are you Reiner?”

“ _Answer my fucking question_!” (“ _Reiner…”_ he heard Bertholdt’s softer voice in the background.) “Why would a Kirstein want to help _us?”_

“I know what happened to you at Maria,” Jean blurted, trying not to trip over the words in his haste to get them out.  “I know you’re being threatened, I...I think I can help you.”

Reiner sighed, the sound merely a rush of static over the bad connection.  “You can’t,” he said.  It didn’t sound sad, or resigned, just...flat.  As obvious as calling the sky blue.  “Even if you _do_ want to help us, and if you think I believe that you’re fucking _insane..._ you can’t.  We can’t be forgiven.”

Jean gritted his teeth, the hatred boiling behind his eyes again.  “ _Please,”_ he said, desperation leaking into his voice.  “You’re in danger.  Annie Leonhardt...she knows that I know, she’s got all the information I have, if she goes after you it’ll be my fault! I _won’t_ let anyone else get hurt by this, not when I can stop it!” He realized he was yelling and forced himself to breathe as the silence stretched out.

“ _Annie_ is going to come after us?” Reiner whispered.  Jean had been expecting shock, or fear, even anger, but the boy sounded _baffled._ “But Annie wouldn’t…” Bertholdt said in the background.  “Why did he say Annie, not--”

Reiner let out a panicked gasp, and the line went dead, leaving Jean staring at the wall as the fire in his veins faded into black ash.

_But Annie wouldn’t…_

Annie wouldn’t know that Eren knew about Maria.  She wouldn’t know he had a key to Jean’s apartment.  She wouldn’t make ransom threats using her own name as bait.  

He told Eren something that turned his whole life upside down, something about Maria...who would he go to?  An old, old friend who knows the company backwards and forwards.  

_“Eren’s dropping out of school...forfeit all that scholarship money…”_

_“Spend it with your grandad?” “Yeah, something like that.”_

Someone worked out the scheme buried in Maria’s logs.  Someone went back into the factory to search for Bertholdt’s severed fingers.  Someone broke into Rose around the time of  Survey’s raid, leaving the factory empty.  Someone with a grudge against Kirstein Co, and a score to settle in the name of the twenty percent.  Someone who gave Jean the push that turned him against Marco, when they were about to blow the mystery wide open.

And it wasn’t Annie Leonhardt.

He barely noticed when his phone began to ring once more, the familiar upbeat lyrics of a song downloaded as a silly, drunken joke.

_Show me how to lie, you’re gettin’ better all the time and turning all against the one is an art that’s hard to teach_

He’d gotten it backwards.

For the second time in two few days, Jean found himself turning the horrible realization around and around in his mind, looking for any flaw and knowing it wouldn’t be there.  It was two minutes after midnight on Friday December 13, 2013, five years to the day after Abel Artlet’s death.

 _There’s something in your way and now someone has gotta pay, and if you can’t get what you want well it’s all because of me_  

 _“Oh Armin,”_ Jean whispered, and shut his eyes.

_Now dance fucker dance…_

 

* * *

**The Board is Set**

And the pieces are moving! But though a game of chess may have only two sides, love and war are rarely so simple...in the next installment of **Strings: A Serial Adventure Story** , enemies known and unknown come together, unstoppable as a runaway train.  So stand clear of the doors, find a solid handhold, and be prepared for anything...when you arrive at **Panic Station**

 

* * *

 

 


	13. Panic Station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. Getting here has been a wild ride, let me tell you. 
> 
> I'm writing this at 2:30 am on Feb. 24th, or to put it another way, six months to the day since [this](http://tuxedo-bomber.tumblr.com/post/58700064752/notebook-doodles-modern-au-in-which-jean-is-a) showed up on my dash and I sent [this](http://tuxedo-bomber.tumblr.com/post/59203445588/so-your-marco-the-bodyguard-doodles-are-calling-to-me) message to yilyil asking for permission to write a silly one shot about rich spoiled jerk Jean and his sexy freckly body guard.
> 
> CLEARLY that happened.
> 
> 2 am may not be the best time to wax lyrical but...I'm truly not exaggerating when I say that the decision to start this story changed my life. I've met some truly wonderful people and written some truly terrifying crack on tumblr at ungodly hours since these two fictional idiots took up residence in my brain, and I really have no words to properly express my gratitude. Thank you, thank you to everyone who's been a part of this crazy-ass experience with me.
> 
> anyway
> 
> Music-wise this chapter, I have mostly returned to the OST of The Holy Text, SnK itself: mostly E.M.A. and Attack on Titan. Also recommend War by Poets of the Fall, because at this point I should just be giving coauthor credit to those guys for everything I write. The chapter title comes from the Muse song of the same name. (Edit: Phix just turned me onto [this rad piece of music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbttZVTSJRU) which makes for a fantastic soundtrack)
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> I love you all!
> 
> ohgoddontkillme

The ringtone cut out before Jean could shake off the shock and answer the call.  His heart hammered against his ribs, fast enough to make his head spin, flooding his veins with adrenaline, he knew he had to act fast but he wasn’t sure yet _why,_ body reacting faster than his mind.  There was still something else, one more loose thread he hadn’t pulled on yet…

Marco’s face surfaced in his memory again, dark eyes melted with grief and pain.  Jean gritted his teeth and tried to force the image down, but--

But Marco had said something else, hadn’t he? Something weird, that didn’t quite fit, what was it?

_Wha--Rose? The other factory? That wasn’t Survey…_

Armin was after Rose...the Survey raid must have seemed heaven sent.  He’d used the raid to cover his own break-in, leaving the factory empty on December 13th, the anniversary of his grandfather’s death.  

Jean buried his face in his hands, fingers clenched in his hair.   _Why didn’t he tell me?_ Armin must have been hiding this information for _years,_ becoming the cancerous heart of all Kirstein Co.’s problems.  The drug production, the explosives in Iran, security breaches and leaks…

Armin didn’t want justice, he wanted _revenge._ And he was going to _take_ it.  

Jean’s phone beeped in his palm; text message from-- _Armin?_ Jean’s heart slammed into his throat as he opened the message, half-terrified to look--

**Blunfrpk1209ey**

“...helpful,” Jean muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Tonight of _all_ nights, why was Armin texting him a random string of gibberish?  Jean snatched a scrap of paper off his counter and scribbled out the message, staring blankly at the letters.  Why did 1229 ring a bell...and why ‘ey’....

...it was from Armin’s phone but that didn’t mean it was from Armin…

Jean spared his phone a half-second glance to punch a speed dial, and went back to staring at the jumble of letters.  As the other end began to ring in his ear he picked up his pen again and drew three vertical lines.

**Blun|frpk|1209|ey**

‘ey.’ Eren Yeager.  He’d gotten ahold of Armin’s phone, and in 14 letters managed to tell Jean exactly where he was.

_Blue North, Forest Park, 12:09_

They were on the blue line of the El train, the overnight that ran from Forest Park, through campus to the airport, starting at 12:09.  Jean didn’t have a prayer of getting on that train, but…

The call _finally_ connected, to a disbelieving voice whispering “...Jean?”

“Marco, just shut up and listen to me--”

 

* * *

 

When he saw the name on the caller ID, Marco’s heart stopped long enough that he had time to wonder, quite calmly, if he’d just died.  Then his heartbeat came back and his brain went into panicky overdrive.   _This is the last chance I’ll ever get to hear his voice, he’s thought it over, he hates me, he’s right he_ should _hate me I’ll never get another chance to tell him I love him--_

Desperate to say something and at a complete loss for words, all he managed to get out was “...Jean?”

“Marco, just shut up and listen to me--” Marco sat up, his instincts firing adrenaline into his veins.  There was a shaky urgency in Jean’s voice that he’d heard only once before, on Halloween: Jean was on to something.

“The north blue line of the El stops by your place in eight minutes,” Jean said, voice low and fast.  “You have _got_ to be on that train Marco, if you run you’ll make it, _go.”_

“Jean...Jean, what’s--”

“Will you trust me?” Jean whispered.  Marco gritted his teeth, mentally adding the _this time_ Jean was too merciful to say aloud.  He slammed out the door, throwing on his shoulder holster and his coat over it as he bounded down the stairs.  Jean Sighed with relief in his ear as he heard him moving.

“Armin’s on that train, he’s got Eren with him.  We can’t let him get out of the city.”

“ _Armin?”_ Marco hit the sidewalk and freezing rain splattered against his face, slushy ice sinking into his coat.

“His granddad was one of the twenty percent,” Jean said, and Marco winced at the pain in his voice.  “He died on December 13th, five years ago...Armin’s going after Rose, _tonight..._ he wants to throw one _hell_ of a memorial service.”

Marco frowned, dodging Friday night foot traffic.  Five minutes left to catch the train, catch Armin...Armin Artlet…

“Son of a _bitch,”_ he hissed between his teeth, cutting off Jean’s explanation.  “He worked the whole thing out...he’s the one who got me suspicious of Survey in the first place.”

“He figured out you too,” Jean said bitterly.  “Turned me against you, you against Survey…”

The dark, fragile looking scaffolding of the El tracks were just ahead.  “Get to Survey,” Marco  told him.  “You’ve still got my car, right? I’ll call, get them moving...you’ll be safe once you’re there.”

“Call Mo,” Jean said, the sound of his feet on the stairs echoing over the line.  “Tell him Armin knows we found Reiner and Bertholdt, he’ll understand.”

Marco vaulted a turnstile, flashing his badge at the CPD uniform who yelled at him.  The closing train doors bounced painfully off his foot and he half-fell into the carriage, breathless, with sleet freezing to his hair.

“Marco?” Jean said, suddenly hesitant. “Listen..Annie Leonhardt’s worked for him for...years, I think, but...she’s not doing it willingly.  There’s two kids caught up in this shit.  She’s protecting them.” Marco swallowed hard: suddenly it wasn’t just the run constricting his chest.  “I don’t think she ever wanted to hurt you.”

_‘“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her blue eyes closed an instant before the flash…_

“Still there? Marco?”

“I’m here,” he managed, sucking in a deep breath.

“Marco...come back, okay?” A car motor turned over in the background, and Jean’s voice was gone.

Marco pressed a palm flat against his chest, forcing his breaths to slow and even out.  He didn’t have time to get all fluttery like a lovesick teenager. ( _Come back, okay?)_ He swayed as the train lurched and began to move, shifting his feet to keep his balance. This was the overnight shuttle - it didn’t stop again until the end of the line, way out at O’Hare...even at 1 am the airport station would be a crowded nightmare.  Controlling that mess would take far more manpower than Survey could mobilize in forty minutes, and he didn’t doubt Armin knew it.  Marco _had_ to have eyes on him before the train stopped, or he’d be gone in a second…

He looped one arm around a vertical pole for balance as he thumbed through his emergency contacts.  He hesitated for a moment, turning the situation over in his mind, before hitting Mo Berner’s personal line.

The call took barely more than a minute.   _They’ve been waiting for this,_ Marco realized as he hung up, leaving Mo frantically hitting computer keys in the background.  He’d intentionally avoided Jean’s name in the description of their new information, but he doubted anyone would be fooled...he tucked his phone away, ignoring the faint, irrational sting that Jean had gone to Mo and not to him.

He took another slow breath, _use the adrenaline but control it, make it work for you not against you,_ and dragged the connecting door open, ducking through the cold, rattling opening into another mostly-empty car.

There weren’t many people on this train, but that was a mixed blessing at best.  Marco wished he’d thought to grab a different coat: his long, black wool coat (Jean called it his Sherlock coat) combined with his height made him much too conspicuous.  He’d never considered himself particularly attractive, but he knew his appearance was distinctive, with his dark hair and pale skin, and the eyes he’d always thought were too big for his face.  Armin would spot him in a second, and if he saw Marco first they were in _big_ trouble.

The cars got a little more crowded close to the middle of the train, and Marco moved ever slower, earning suspicious glances as he squinted through the grimy plexiglass windows, scoping out each car before moving on.  There were two slim figures smack in the middle of the next car, but he couldn’t get a clear view of them…

The train took a curve, causing a heavy-set older lady to sway in her seat, and Marco jerked away from the window with a hiss as his line of site cleared.  

Eren was closer to him, hunched over with his hands fisted on his knees.  He was ghost-white and sweaty, but on this train that would easily pass for drunk.  The train swayed and he jolted awkwardly, posture too tense and stiff, and Marco could guess what that meant.

Armin had a gun on him.

He had to wait for the next curve to get a good look at Armin.  He had no coat, just a thin leather jacket, and his hair was hastily tied back away from his face.  He looked cooler than Eren, but - Marco smiled grimly - his poker face wasn’t as good as he thought it was, and his body twisted strangely, making it obvious where the gun hidden under his coat was directed.  Marco recognized the expression on his face: he’d seen a ghost of it before, back in Jean’s kitchen a whole world away, a lighting snap of anger after Marco insulted the intelligence of a wannabe kidnapper...okay…

 _You’re arrogant,_ Marco thought.   _You put a hell of a lot of stock in being smarter--not just smarter,_ better -- _than everyone else...and you’re possessive.  You don’t like Survey using Jean as a chesspiece because Jean is_ yours.   _And now he’s fired back: you forgot that pawns can capture and he’s forced your hand.  He insulted you.  Okay._

_Okay. I can use that._

He stepped back from the door, glancing around to take stock of his surroundings. His eye fell on a teenage girl near the door, with a little boy about three years old asleep in her lap.  The kid was bundled up snugly in a puffy winter coat, but the girl had nothing but a thin canvas jacket and a denim feed-cap, and even in the warmth of the train she was shivering.  Marco smiled to himself, reaching for his wallet.

“Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to wake the kid.  “Will you sell me your hat for fifty bucks?”

She gave him a long, wary look, one hand moving to the little boy’s back.  “What’s the catch?”

Marco smiled.  “No catch, I promise.  I just need something to cover my face a little.”  He opened his wallet to take out the cash, making sure she caught a good look at the little golden shield in place of what would normally be a driver’s licence.  Her face lit with sudden excitement - still just a kid herself - and Marco winked as she snatched the hat off and handed it to him.

“Is somethin’ happening?” she whispered as he gave her the money - three twenties folded up tightly enough that he hoped she wouldn’t bother to count ‘til later.  

“Nothing you should worry about,” he told her gently.  “When we get to the airport, just...take your time getting off, okay?”  

He turned back to the connecting door, and belatedly noticed the big fleur-de-lise pattern picked out across the side of the cap in pink rhinestones.  Marco heaved a sigh, jamming the thing down over his hair.  Well, he certainly didn’t scream CIA agent anymore.  He took up his position to the side of the window again, angling himself so he could get a clear view of Armin Artlet, fidgeting nervously on the cracked plastic bench.

 _You shouldn’t have tried to go toe-to-toe with Irvin Smith, sweetheart,_ the thought tasted sweet, intoxicating and just one step shy of vicious.   _And you shouldn’t have tried it with_ me.

The train jolted, and Marco nearly lost his balance.  Through the door he saw Armin start, nearly springing to his feet as the train, inexplicably, began to lose speed.  A second later, the train’s PA system crackled to life, and Marco watched the color leave the young man’s face.

“ _Hi folks, this is your conductor speaking.  Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks like we’ll be making an unscheduled stop tonight, to deal with a little bit of engine trouble.  Nothing to worry about, I’ll be back on in a minute to tell you if you’ll need to change trains.  We’ll be stopping just south of Trost Station…”_

* * *

 

The Survey building looked like a kicked ant-heap, if ants were very heavily armed in addition to very well organized.  Jean couldn’t help but be impressed: they couldn’t have had more than ten minutes to mobilize since Marco’s call.  Jean turned off the car, reaching for the door, and realized his pocket was vibrating again.  He rolled his eyes; if he got out of this night alive, he was sending everyone at Verizon a giant fucking fruitbasket.  Could you get durian in fruit baskets…? He looked at the number - 872-336-77 _fuck--_

“Reiner, what’s wrong?” Jean asked, all sarcastic fruity thoughts leaving his mind.

“I underestimated you, Mr. Kirstein,” said the woman on the other end of the line.  Her voice was low and musical and, like Reiner and Bertholdt’s, tinged with a faint accent.

“Annie.”

“You know where he is going, don’t you?” Annie Leonhardt asked, casually as a person enquiring about the weather.  “Do you understand what today means to him?”

“Rose,” Jean said.  “That’s where he’s going, right? He’s gonna blow the second factory--”

“Well done.  Listen to me Jean, he has taken your friend Eren--”

“--Blue line, headed for the airport, I know,” Jean cut her off, watching the swirl of activity outside the Survey building.  “Marco’s on the same train.

“...I _truly_ underestimated you,” Annie said softly.  “I can’t intervene, Jean…I can’t, not even for his sake. Armin already believes Bertholdt contacted _you,_ not the other way around...I can’t risk crossing him directly, for their sake--”

“Why do you care what happens to them?  You were just security, right?  You threw in with Armin to shelter those two kids, why bother?”

“ _Don’t talk like you were there,”_ Annie snapped, and even through a staticky phone connection the venom in her words made Jean jolt.  “I pulled them out of the factory that day, _Kirstein._ A second slower the explosion would have shredded all three of us.  Bertholdt almost bled to death in my arms...and the day you can begin to understand what that feels like, _then_ you can ask me _why I care.”_

Jean didn’t bother with an apology, swiping at the tears before they could freeze.  “What do I do?”  he said simply.  “You can’t intervene--”

“I can’t stop _Armin,_ no,” and Jean heard the hint of a smile in her voice.  “But I _can_ stop the train. Now shut up and listen--”

 

Jean’s fingers were already going numb from cold as he fumbled his phone back into his pocket, sprinting across the street towards the tangle of activity, scanning for someone he recognized, _anyone…_

A figure peeled off from the central group, moving towards a black motorcycle parked on the sidewalk, and Jean locked onto it.  “Captain Levi.   _Captain Levi!”_

“Kirstein? What the _fuck_ are you doing here--”

“Someone just called in a threat to the Blue line, told them the motor’s been tampered with!  They’re not going all the way to the airport, the train’s gonna stop at Trost Station, by the river--”

Levi didn’t bother to wait for him to finish, spinning on his heel with a vicious curse.  “Irvin! _Irvin_ call ‘em back, we’ve got trouble!  Mo, get on the phone with Mike, if there’s any chance CPD can get there before we can--we’ve gotta get backup to Trost for Bodt.”

“Take me with you,” Jean gasped as soon as the captain paused for breath.  Levi stopped in his tracks and gave him a long, disbelieving stare.  “I know the situation better than you do,” he said softly, meeting his eyes.  “I know _Armin_ better than you.”

Levi hesitated as Survey’s unmarked cars started peeling out, low-profile emergency lights throwing spinning shadows against the buildings, and then swore under his breath.  He grabbed a full face helmet off the back of the Kawasaki  and rammed it into Jean’s arms.  “Put that on,” he snarled, pulling his scarf out of his coat and winding it over his mouth and nose.  “And hold on.”

Jean swallowed hard and climbed gingerly onto the sleek black bike behind the captain, gingerly bracing his hands in front of him.  Levi snorted, muffled by the scarf, and grabbed both his arms.  “I said hold _on,_ Kirstein.  Christ, I thought you were supposed to be gay.”  He pulled, jerking Jean forward until his chest pressed against the captain’s back and locked his arms tightly around his stomach.  “If you fall off I’m not stopping to scrape you off the pavement.”  Jean blushed behind the helmet’s faceplate and tightened his grip as Levi kicked the motor to life with a roar that echoed over the sirens kicking up all over the city.

Even through his coat, sleet impacting at eighty miles an hour _hurt._  Jean couldn’t imagine how Levi was seeing, but he hung on for dear life, trying not to notice how close their knees hared to the pavement every time Levi took a corner.

He saw the lights before the train itself, the big sodium headlight glaring out through the sheeting ice.  It was still moving, barely, as Levi screeched the bike to a stop amidst the snarl of Survey and CPD vehicles under the tracks, the engine’s blunt nose edging out over the black water of the Chicago river.

“Oh that’s _perfect, fucking perfect!”_ Levi was yelling at no one in particular.  Jean pulled off the helmet with shaking fingers, head spinning from the adrenaline.  “Of _course_ you can’t stop at the _station,_ useless shitheads, you’ve gotta leave a fucking huge-ass _river_ between us and the train--”

“If you’d care to stop yelling you might note they’re preventing the passengers from disembarking,” Irvin said mildly, shooting his captain a sidelong glance.  Levi tugged his soaked scarf off his mouth, and Jean noticed with a sting of guilt that the skin around his eyes was now a spiderwebbed mess of ruptured capillaries.  “We need to get eyes on Artlet, and get someone in contact with Marco.”

“Springer?” Irvin said, and Levi shook his head.

“Doesn’t have enough of the big picture.  And we need Berner on the ground with Zoe.  As long as Artlet stays put we can wait it out ‘til Sasha gets here, or send--”

“ _Me.”_ Jean shook off the shock and straightened up, forcing down the cold and the fear and the swirling confusion of being so terrifyingly in over his head.  “It’s gotta be me.”

Levi and Irvin both turned disbelieving stares to him, and Jean swallowed hard.  Another car squealed into the station, and Sasha jumped out of the passenger seat before it had stopped moving, running towards them with a long black case under one arm.  

“There’s no-one else here who knows the full story,” Jean said urgently, meeting both their eyes in turn.  “Not Marco, not Eren, no-one but me.   _Please,_ he’s got a hostage...you need someone who can talk him down. Or--” he glanced towards Sasha, towards the dissassembled rifle in her hands, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.  “Or stall him.”

The two commanders exchanged a split-second glance, but that was all it took.  Irvin nodded shortly, and Levi shut his eyes for a moment, lips moving soundlessly in something that looked like a prayer.  “CPD has long-distance eyelines in place,” he said, the strange moment come and gone in the blink of an eye.  “We’re gonna need the best marksmen we’ve got.”

Irvin nodded again. “Sasha, get--”

Levi growled and grabbed his elbow, spinning him back around.  “I said the _best,_ Irvin.”  Their eyes met, Irvin staring down at his captain for a long, shocked second. Then, without another word said, the commander of Survey tugged the rifle case out of Sasha’s hands and took off across the empty station at a run, towards a tall office building on the far side of the elevated track.  

“Sasha, give me your radio,” Levi said, soft and resigned.  She  nodded and quickly unhooked the tangle of wires.  She hesitated for a moment after handing it over, and then gave Jean a quick, wordless hug before running after Irvin.

“We can’t risk a microphone with this setup. Too visible.  Take off your coat,” Levi said, deftly looping the tiny beige earpiece around Jean’s neck.  “You’ll be able to hear us, but it’ll be one way.  We’ll keep eyes on you though, so try to stay visible.” He handed Jean the battery pack and pointed up at the track above them.  “There’s a catwalk under the track, see it? Go up the service ladder and use that to get to the other side of the river, and for the love of _God_ stay on this side of the train, until you find Marco, go it?”

Jean nodded, fighting to keep his breathing steady.  

“Alright.”  Levi hooked the little speaker over Jean’s ear, glancing around them, and then grabbed his collar and pulled his head down.  “ _Listen to me,”_ he said in French, speaking very fast. “Irvin won’t shoot to kill unless he has to, but don’t go up there thinking you’ll come out clean.  Artlet’s backed into a corner and that’s going to make him dangerous.   _You are not going up there to save him,_ understand?”  Levi hesitated for a second, and then spoke even softer, his Marseille accent creeping back into his voice.  “And whatever happens, _don’t forget to stay alive.”_ And then, to Jean’s complete shock, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Jean’s cheek, a fleeting touch like a blessing.  He stepped back and nodded, once.  “Go.”

* * *

 

Marco ran through every profanity in his vocabulary as the train decelerated.  They were going to stop south of the station, that was clear - the river stretched just ahead of train, a wide band of blackness cutting through the lights of the city, the dark station just on the other side of the water.  

He caught his breath as the first of the spinning police lights pulled to a halt under the tracks, the lights sliding blue-red-blue-red-blue off the lacey scaffolding.  Most passengers sighed and grumbled, resigned to the delay, but Armin sat up straighter, back too straight and shoulders too tight, and Eren jumped and winced suddenly, like a gun had been jammed into his ribs...Marco dragged the first door open and stepped into the narrow connection, not daring to take his eyes off Armin.  It was too much to hope that he hadn’t seen the lights waiting at Trost Station.

 _“This is your conductor speaking again, we’ve got a mechanical issue, nothing to worry about but we’re gonna take care of it right here before we get moving.  Please remain seated and bear with us folks, we’ll be moving again in just a few minutes, and then--”_ and Armin stood up, too fast, one hand on Eren’s shoulder dragging him up too, voices yelled as his hand came out of his pocket and he leveled the gun at the window across from him.

Armin fired twice, cracks shooting across the thick safety glass.  He braced one foot on the seat and slammed his shoulder against the weakened window, and the whole thing exploded outward in a shower of

glass shards and bent metal.  Marco gritted his teeth and curled his hand around the door handle, waiting for his opening - painful as waiting was, he couldn’t risk startling Armin: he was too unstable and there were too many people in the way of that big black  handgun.  Armin stepped back and snarled something at Eren, who nodded, holding his hands up placatingly, and scrambled out the shattered window.   _Smart kid,_ Marco thought approvingly.  Eren might be a hothead, but he was bright enough not to push Armin when there were so many other people in the line of fire.  

The second Armin disappeared out the window, Marco threw the connecting door open and dove after him.  Snow and stinging ice whipped through the broken window: this close to the giant, frigid expanse of Lake Michigan the winds screamed across the tracks louder than a banshee and Marco was willing to bet Armin had timed his break across the city to coincide with the cover of the storm.

He followed the fleeing kids out the window, bent struts snagging on his coat and his borrowed hat, and dropped onto the narrow band of grating between the northbound track and a low, perfunctory safety rail.  Armin and Eren were already half-invisible behind the blowing snow, visible mainly by their shadows in the harsh light of the train’s single headlight.  Here in the lee-side of the train, with some protection from the big bridge supports, the wind wasn’t terrible, but out on the open expanse of tracks above the river, it would be _brutal._ And nearly impossible to hit a target, unless the target was a hostage right beside you.

A rhythmic clanging reached his ears, and Marco spun, risking taking his eyes of Armin as he struggled against the wind.  He felt the footsteps more than heard them, shaking up through his feet as someone ran across the catwalk under the tracks, the footsteps stuttered and the access ladder juddered as a weight hit it and Marco completely stopped breathing once again.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he’d meant to yell, but it came out in a sort of pathetic, breathless gasp as he grabbed Jean’s arms and hauled him off the slick ladder onto the relative safety of the walkway.  

“Hostage negotiation,” Jean grumbled, taking advantage of the protection of the train to shake some of the snow out of his hair, and Marco caught sight of the little radio in his ear.  His amber eyes flicked up, running over Marco from head to foot, lingering just a second on his cracked, bloody nails, before he finally, hesitantly looked up to meet Marco’s eyes.  

“Nice hat,” Jean said. 

Marco pulled him forward by the back of the neck, the icy water clinging to his black gloves and Jean’s skin making his fingers slip,  and kissed him, once, too hard and too desperate.  He knew it was a dick move, and Jean would have been well within his rights to punch his teeth down his throat, but for the few seconds their lips touched Jean matched his fervor breath for breath, fingers digging into his shoulders.  

“ _Christ on a fucking bike,”_ Levi grumbled in Jean’s earpiece, and Marco pulled back guiltily.  

“One way?” He asked, tapping his own ear.  Jean nodded.

“Said we couldn’t risk the microphone.  Were the gunshots--”

“Just the window,” Marco said, and Jean relaxed just a fraction.  Marco pulled the borrowed hat off - that ship had pretty thoroughly sailed - and reached for his phone.  

“They’re trying to get snipers on the roofs.” Jean jerked his head towards a tall building on the far side of the river as Marco dialed Levi’s personal number.  He locked the screen and tucked his phone into the breast pocket of Jean’s buttondown.  

“Broadcast microphone. Sort of.”

“ _Nice,”_ Levi said faintly.  Jean looked north, down the tracks: Armin and Eren were just barely visible, but they’d stopped running, sheltering behind the big support that jutted up from the center of the river. He turned his head and looked up into Marco’s eyes.

"It was Annie," he said, in response to the unasked question.  "She stopped the train, told me where to go...she's picked her side, Marco."

Marco couldn't find the words to respond.  He just nodded, helplessly, hoping Jean would understand.

“Will you trust me?” Jean asked, once again.  

“With my life, Jean,” Marco whispered in reply.  Jean just nodded, raising an arm to shield his eyes as he moved forward, out of the shelter of the bridge support.  Marco instinctively stepped in front of him, between him and whatever threat lay ahead, and Jean reached out and caught his arm, pulling him back.

“Not this time,” he said.  “Not here.”

Marco shut his eyes and swallowed hard, and then met Jean’s eyes and nodded.  They turned together and walked out into the darkness over the river, side by side.

* * *

 

TRANSCRIPT OF: conversation recorded by personal transmission system, 13 December 2013; submitted as evidence by Survey Intelligence Special Agent Springer, Conrad [Badge #104-8-SC] Names redacted by order of US 6th Circuit Judge Rico Brzenska pending admission of evidence to trial. Unless indicated, conversation has been translated from East-Slavic/Ukranian Yiddish.

Speaker A: Come on, come _on_ we don’t have time to [indecipherable]

Speaker B: Do we have to run, this time? What about--

A: _He’s got your fingers, Bertl.  He can_ [indecipherable] All of it.  3,000 deaths.  This one’s unlocked, c’mon. [Sound of car door slamming; cracking plastic.]

B: But Jean--

A: Jean? _Fuck_ Jean, are you going to trust him over Annie? Who else could understand?

B: I’m so tired, Reiner...I’m tired of being scared all the time

[Sound of motor turning over; dying]

A: _Fuck,_ come on, come on...we don’t have a _choice._ We can’t go home, we sure as _fuck_ can’t stay here.  We’re a couple of mass-murderers and nothing else, Bertl, _no-one’s_ going to find us--

Speaker C [in English; conversation in English for remainder of transcript]: Why don’t you come out of the car?

[No speech discernable for 35 seconds; scuffling sounds]

C: Don’t be scared, it’s okay.  Put the cover back on and I never saw you try to hotwire it, okay?  

[speaker unclear]: [indecipherable] the _fuck are--_

C: You’re Reiner, right? Reiner and Bertholdt?  It’s okay, it’s _okay,_ don’t run.  My name’s Connie Springer.  You have _no idea_ how long I’ve been trying to find you…

* * *

 

It felt a little like jumping off a cliff, Jean thought as the full force of the wind slammed against him.  His mind raced ahead of his footsteps the closer they came to the two figures in the shadow of the bridge support.

“ _Irvin’s in place,”_ Levi said, the wind making the connection pop with static.  “ _Get him out of there if you can.”_ Jean nodded, although he didn’t know if Levi could see him.  Armin had never been strong, sick and easily tired as long as Jean had known him, and the storm and the tension would be taking its toll by now.  He raised his arm to block the sleet again, slowing down as his stretching shadow reached the little pool of darkness ahead.

“I didn’t think it’d be you,” Armin said.  His voice was strained with exhaustion, but he sounded...normal.  Like _Armin,_ Jean forced himself to admit.  He’d wanted some cackling madman, an evil villain with the mask peeled away, but...no, it was still Armin, brilliant, fragile little Armin stepping out into the harsh light cast by the train.  He pulled Eren up beside him, one arm locked tight around his neck.

“Put it down, Marco,” Armin called out, gesturing once with the big handgun.  Out of the corner of his eye, Jean watched Marco step back, holding both hands up, and wordlessly slip his Glock back into his shoulder-holster.  Armin nodded and crooked his arm, pulling the gun back in so he could press it against Eren’s temple.  Eren shut his eyes and shivered, face white.  

“Where’re you going to go?” Marco said softly. “I know you’ve seen the lights.  You can’t make it back to the train, and you can’t go to the station--”

“And I rather think that’s my problem, not yours,” Armin snapped, and Eren winced as the nose of the gun dug into his skin.  Marco fell silent instantly and Armin smiled, too many teeth and eyes too wide.  “And shouldn’t you two still hate each other?” His cold eyes snapped back to Jean.  “ _I’m not saying his feelings for you aren’t real, but he’s_ lying _to you,”_ Armin said, and the voice coming from behind his glassy smile was note-for-note the wrecked, guilt ridden tone Jean remembered from the coffee shop.  

Once again, Jean found himself caught by the aching, empty feeling of _wanting_ to be angry, and finding nothing but sick, cold sadness.  Hatred was _so_ much easier: Armin had taken that lesson to heart, five years ago.  Hatred was a comfort, when you were scared, and hurt, and lonely and had nothing else to hold on to…he glanced over his shoulder and caught Marco watching him, eyes hidden in the shadows.

“We’ve got our reasons,” he said, half to him and half to Armin, and caught the split-second slip as Armin narrowed his eyes.  

“I’m impressed,” Armin said, and Eren gagged as his grip tightened.  “And I thought I’d covered my tracks, too…” He smiled that sick, too-bright smile again.  “Where’d I go wrong?”

“You stayed angry,” Jean said softly, his voice carrying through a sudden drop in the wind. “You got hooked on the pain, it made you arrogant and that made you careless, and you held on to too many things you should’ve let go.”

His eyes flickered, just for a second; the mask slipped and Jean locked eyes with the Armin he’s known six years ago, the shy, sweet little kid who’d kissed him in the archives.  Jean stepped slowly forward, _knowing_ that, just for that second, Armin wouldn’t shoot.

“It’s addictive isn’t it?  The anger.”  Jean took another step, feeling his way along the icy grates.  “It feels _so_ good, knowing you were _wronged,_ knowing the whole world owes you something huge.  You start thinkin’ it’s your right, to just reach out and _take_ it no matter the cost, ‘cause no one’s ever been hurt as bad as _you--”_

“ _What do you know about pain?”_ Armin hissed.  “ _How would you know what it’s like?”_ Beside Jean, Marco very slowly shifted his weight, leaning forward on the balls of his feet...he was poised to run, and a second later Jean realized why: Armin’s grip was loosening.  As Jean kept him talking, Eren was slowly straightening up, gaining more and more leeway from the arm around his neck...just a little bit more and he’d be able to pull away...Jean risked a glance up at the building across the river.  He had a clear line of sight to the roof now, just a few more steps and Armin would be in range...for Irvin to shoot him... _he won’t shoot to kill unless he has to…_

“I _don’t_ know what it’s like, don’t you get that?” he yelled.  Come on, come on, one more step…”But I know _you.” Fuck it let’s go for broke._ “You’re not gonna shoot me.”

“ _Jean…”_ Marco hissed in warning, Jean ignored him and started walking forward again, one step at a time.

“You’re not a killer, man.  You almost lost your nerve on Halloween, didn’t you?  You were _wrecked_ that morning, Armin.  You thought you’d do whatever it took, but I almost died right in front of you, and you weren’t ready for _that._ You couldn’t even _watch_ it happen. You won’t pull the trigger yourself.”  He looked back over his shoulder, and Marco nodded his head, just a fraction.  “You’re _not a killer,”_ he repeated.  “You wanted to destroy Rose, but you made sure the factory would be empty, didn’t you?” Somewhere away to the east, churchbells started to ring out the hour as 1 am drew near.  “You still hide things inside your computer - we used to leave notes for each other like that, back at Maria, did you think I’d forgotten?  You bought me a peppermint mocha ‘cause you remember that my mom used to make it for me when I was sick.”

Another carillon started ringing on the other side of the river, and Jean felt that little, familiar kick in the back of his mind.   _1 am..._ and then Armin took the last step forward, and it took all Jean’s self control to keep his face blank as Levi’s voice hissed “ _Gotcha.”_

“Just put the gun _down,”_ Jean yelled, knowing that Armin would hear the desperation in his voice.  “It’s not too _late,_ Armin, you haven’t hurt anyone, not yet, come _on--_ ”

Armin _laughed,_ and the wind kicked up to a new volume hard enough to make the bridge sway under them, throwing Armin’s hair across his handsome face.

“It’s been too late for a _while_ now, Jean,” he said, still laughing.  The wind died down but the bridge kept shaking, churchbells all around them ringing in a disjointed 1 am--

\--the southbound train crossed the river at Trost Station just after one in the morning--

Jean hadn’t been stalling Armin.  All this time, since the moment they stepped onto the bridge, Armin had been letting Jean stall himself.  Until the southbound train crossed the river and cut off line of sight to the station.  The icy metal underfoot shook harder, Marco gasped beside him as he hit the same conclusion, the second that train hit Trost Station they were on their own.  

“ _It was Annie,”_ Marco yelled without warning, above the roar of the wind and the oncoming train.  “ _Annie stopped the train, she turned on you!”_ And for the first time that night, they caught Armin really, truly off-guard.

The opening only lasted a second as Armin’s face froze, his mouth opened, emotions fighting each other behind his eyes, shock fury disbelief and beneath them all, something just a _little_ like heartbreak...the tiny opening wasn’t enough, didn’t give Marco his chance to get close, didn't let Jean come up with something else to say or Irvin draw a new line of sight…

But it gave Eren room to kick.

In the instant that Armin wavered his foot slammed up and back, cracking against his knee and Marco was moving before he’d even connected, sprinting forward oblivious to the rain or the icy metal.

Armin yelled in pain, he stumbled but his grip on Eren’s neck redoubled, jerking the taller boy back against his chest, the gun came up to point at Marco sprinting towards him but his knee juddered under his weight and the shot went wide, sparking off the rail and in the chaos of echos after the gunshot, Irvin fired.  

Jean wasn’t even aware of the second shot until Eren screamed, the right side of his face suddenly drenched in blood, Armin’s grip on him went limp as he stumbled back and then Marco was there.

He grabbed the falling Eren and shoved him hard towards Jean, Armin slipped on the treacherous metal grate and his legs hit the too low-railing as Jean caught Eren’s dead weight and pulled him away from the tracks - he was unconscious, but the source of the blood was just a deep graze across the top of his shoulder and Jean realized his collarbone must be broken.

He was still struggling to disentangle them when he heard Marco’s strangled yell, and watched helpless as Armin’s knee gave out and he fell backwards, momentum throwing him over the low railing, nothing but open air between Jean’s oldest friend and the black river below--

\--Marco flung himself forward, slammed against the railing on one knee and caught Armin’s wrist as the southbound train roared onto the bridge.

“I gotcha,” Marco growled, teeth gritted with effort.  He got his other hand on Armin’s, grip treacherous and slipping, and managed to pull himself to his feet, bent over the low rail at the waist.  Armin just _looked_ at him, his left arm limp at his side and a black rose of blood spreading out across his chest.  “Come on Armin,” Marco gasped, “Come on, reach for me, it’s just a shoulder wound, come _on…_ ”

“It was Annie?” Armin said, and despite the wind and the ice and the world-shaking roar of the train Jean felt like the words had been whispered in his ear.  

“We gotta get you back on solid ground, help me out here--” Marco tried again to haul him up, feet slipping.  Jean eased Eren to the ground and scrambled to his feet as Marco’s grip slipped again and he was clinging to Armin with one hand, chest heaving with the effort of hanging on, “ _Shit! Armin I can’t hold you--Armin, shit!”_  And with the same nightmare clarity Jean saw Armin’s fingers go slack, his hand slipped out of Marco’s and his delicate form dropped away from the bridge, a pale white-and-gold shape against the black water.

Jean started running before he really knew why, before he saw Marco stumble, losing his balance as Armin’s weight dropped off his arm and his feet skidded.  He watched Marco fall backwards in jerky stop-motion, lit by the flickering strobe light of the train’s windows, his eyes still locked on the falling figure below the bridge and Jean reached out to grab his arms before the slipstream could catch him and slam him into the side of the rushing train.  

He was too late.  

His numb fingers brushed uselessly against the sleeves of Marco’s coat and Jean couldn’t hear even his own screams over the sudden shriek of brakes as Marco’s head cracked against the train and he dropped onto the tracks like a puppet with its strings cut.

Something caught fire behind Jean’s eyes, he felt the panicked screaming become a gutteral snarl in his throat, cold and the terror forgotten long enough to launch himself into the path of the train and catch Marco as he fell, jerking him up and away from the tracks a second before the wheels rolled past his head and then the heat was gone and Jean was sprawled on his back on the tiny walkway, trapped under Marco’s dead weight.  He fought to sit up, sobbing in panic, Marco’s blood spattered across his face almost hot enough to burn as the train ground to a screaming halt, the wide smear of blood across the side black under the yellow lights.

He had to stop the bleeding, stop the bleeding so much blood _too_ much blood, he managed to struggle upright, Marco’s head lolling against his shoulder, had to find where he was bleeding--

There were voices now, though he wasn’t hearing them, doors sliding open as people ran towards him, a faint buzzing in his ear, insignificant as an insect, as Jean slumped back against the railing behind him, clinging to Marco’s bleeding body, and oblivious to everything but Marco’s right arm, crushed under the wheel of the train.

* * *

 

**A Hollow Victory**

* * *

 

There is no triumph without defeat.  A disaster is prevented, forgotten victims found...but the cost is yet to be counted.  When **Strings: A Serial Adventure Story** concludes: some heroes die unsung.  Some villains live out their days in peace.  Normal people become characters in stories not their own. Some struggle. Some flourish.  And some...are **Dead on Arrival**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun game for all the family: go re-read from the beginning and count the number of references to trains.
> 
> I really can't even PRETEND to be sorry about this one can I?
> 
> Now go listen to [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcsEYgnc1QE)


	14. Dead on Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy balls this chapter did not want to be written. You'll have to forgive me if it's a little disjointed, it was written in many different notebooks during many different car rides (and one really boring workshop.) Mild content warning for a certain amount of gore and panic-attacky stuff, and sort of homophobic slurs? Like, the words but not the actual hatred...it makes sense in context, but be aware.
> 
> Music this time around: I'd recommend my official Jean and Marco anthem, 'Maybe Tomorrow is a Better Day/Dawn" by Poets of the Fall. Apocalyptica's 'Farewell' also makes a good background.
> 
> One more chapter to go :)

**Chapter 14: Dead on Arrival**

“ _\--segments of the El train between Forest Park and O’Hare international airport are currently closed following gunfire at the Trost Station bridge over the Chicago River.  CPD liasons confirm that gunfire was the result of a confrontation between civilian criminals and members of Survey, a local branch of the CIA.  At least three people were removed from the scene in ambulances, including one Survey agent who is currently in critical condition at Saint Anthony medical center._

_Details remain classified, including names of the participants and how many fatalities, if any, occurred.  However, our reporters have obtained exclusive footage, recorded by a bystander, which appears to show a human falling from the bridge immediately following the gunshots.  The following footage has not been retouched or edited in any way. Viewer discretion is advised; what you are about to see may disturb you--_

“Will you turn that fuckin’ thing _off?”_ Levi growled, glaring at Irvin over his shoulder.  Irvin reached up and punched the mute button of the TV mounted on the waiting room wall and leaned back into the corner, tracking the scrolling subtitles with expressionless eyes.  Levi sighed and resettled himself, threading his fingers through Zoe’s again.

Uneasy silence descended over the waiting room at Saint Anthony’s, broken only by the faint buzz of hospital activity outside the door.  The waiting room was empty save for the bedraggled cluster of Survey people spread out around the cracked plastic chairs.  No one talked; no one had any idea what to say.  

Connie had caught up with the rest of the group a few hours after the ambulances reached the hospital and Marco and Eren disappeared into the chaos of the ER.  He sat with his face buried in his hands; he was silent, but from the way his shoulders shook it wasn’t hard to tell that he was crying.  Sasha sat beside him, one arm around his waist and her face composed and distant; she’d survived two tours of duty in Syria, and this wasn’t the first time she’d faced down the loss of a comrade.  Zoe and Mo had both managed to doze off, Mo leaning back against a wall and Zoe curled into Levi’s shoulder, tear tracks sticky on her cheeks. Of all of them, only Levi had managed to change clothes, although his ever-present white scarf was still wrapped around his neck and gradually soaking his collar.   Like Sasha, his face was cool and expressionless, but his knuckles were white where he held his sleeping wife’s hand.

Jean didn’t sleep.  He sat on the floor apart from the rest of the silent group, leaning against the big picture window that faced east towards the highway, with his knees drawn up to his chest.  The EMTs had given him a loose blue scrub top to replace his blood-soaked shirt, but he scratched unconciously at the streaks of blood (Marco’s, Eren’s, no way to tell them apart) drying on his jeans as he stared blankly at the slowly lightening sky.  

His eyes burned, itching with dryness, but every time he closed them he saw it again, the cyclops eye of the approaching train sending his shadow spinning across the tracks and the eggshell crack, Marco’s eyes rolling back as his head slammed into the side, the strange tearing sound as he dragged him away from the wheels and the hot spray of blood across his face--

Past that, he didn’t remember much.  The conductor of the northbound train running towards them, with two women who’d answered his call for anyone with medical training.  One of them had knelt down by Eren, the other had put her hand on his shoulder, she was still wearing nurses scrubs, coming off her shift and he remembered snarling and slapping her away...she’d pulled the belt off her coat and tied off what was left of Marco’s arm while he lay against Jean’s chest.  Levi yelling meaningless words in his ear, and a slender, blonde CPD lieutenant arriving by his side….they’d pulled the earpiece off and spoken to him in a soft, soothing voice…” _Jean, let us help him...come on, sweetheart, you’ve got to let him go…”_ and he tried to shoulder them away without letting go of Marco.  

In the end, the towering police captain simply picked him up like a kitten and walked away, carrying him cradled against his chest, and Jean finally stopped fighting.  He remembered the captain carrying him off the tracks, calling on his radio for someone to order another ambulance.   _“Mike, Mike! Is he injured?” “Blood’s not his, but he’s freezing, he’s stopped shivering...got to warm him up…”_ Mike and Levi peeling his blood and rain soaked coat off in the back of an ambulance and wrapping him in a scratchy orange blanket, Mike gently tugged him down on one of the benches and enfolded him in a bear hug, until the feeling started to return to his limbs, _“We’re taking off Captain Zacharius, we can keep him warm,” “That’s okay, I’ll ride with him…”_

And the back of the ambulance became the ER became this stained, rundown waiting room full of stained, rundown people and blue light began to bleed across the eastern horizon.  Eventually his companions dozed off, except for Irvin (who stayed leaning against the wall with his eyes fixed on the newscast,) and Levi (who possessed the zen-like talent of doing nothing, an art mastered mostly by cats and old soldiers.)

Maybe it was healthy, the ability to stay calm in a tragedy, but Jean didn’t feel calm.  He felt…hollow, like the deep pit in his stomach the last week had finally expanded to swallow him whole.

He _loved_ Marco, or thought he loved him, or had loved some version of him, gotten hooked on the presence of his protector and convinced himself that what he felt was love…and he was gone,behind a spray of blood and a too-hard, too-brief kiss.

Maybe his brush with hypothermia had just left him frozen solid, he thought, rubbing his chill-burned fingers together.  The nurses had taken him to a shower to clean up and get warm, but his nails remained black with dried blood, and one of them had ripped when it snagged on Marco’s coat.  He was just now beginning to feel the dull throb as the numbness receded.

The horizon changed from eerie pre-dawn blue to faint yellow to orange, the sun began to edge up out of the sunrise expanse of the lake.

They had no word yet from the doctors.

Jean didn’t sleep.

Around seven am, as the sleepy overnight buzz of the hospital began to pick up into a busy roar, Mikasa arrived with a couple of bring-your-own grocery bags on her arm.  She’d brought Jean a change of clothes, and she informed them in her soft, reserved way, that she’d be allowed to take Eren home in a few hours.  He had a fractured collarbone and close to a hundred stitches in the deep graze, but he would heal.

By pure chance, Jean was looking at Irvin when Mikasa delivered the good news, and he saw it when the commander’s composure broke.  He squeezed his eyes shut, crow’s feet deepening at the corners, and the shaky breath that escaped between his lips was pure, shaken relief.  Then his air of command was back, and he politely, formally asked Mikasa’s permission to see her brother.

_You weren’t sure,_ Jean thought as he watched them leave.   _You took the best shot you had, but you really weren’t sure you didn’t kill him._ Masks everywhere, masks and cracks…even _Irvin,_ cool, calculating, unflappable Commander Irvin could feel something, pain and worry and relief that he hadn’t killed an innocent.

Jean changed into the clothes Mikasa had brought him in the bathroom down the hall, tile floor freezing his bare feet.  She’d just grabbed the first things she’d spotted: a pair of jeans, a college t-shirt, a black fleece jacket…

He shoved Marco’s jacket into the bag along with his damp pants and the scrubs, ignoring the goose bumps on his bare arms.

He returned to find the waiting room abuzz with activity, early sunlight now pouring through the big east-facing windows.  The Survey officers clustered around two exhausted-looking surgeons still in their operating scrubs, running down a list on a clipboard.

As Jean came cautiously through the door, Mo Berner spun away from the little knot of people, face buried in his hands, and his shoulders shook as he bit back a sob.  He looked up through his tangled bangs and saw Jean, frozen on the far side of the room, and a look of pure heartbreak flashed across his face.  He ducked his head and half-ran out the door, disappearing around the corner and Jean caught a second, half-swallowed sob…running away so Jean didn’t have to see him breaking down…

Jean became aware of the debate now going on between the doctors and the survey officers, in hurried half-whispers.

“... _any family?”_

_“Just his mother, overseas…contacted her but the storm’s got planes grounded all over the continent…no telling when…”_

_“Emergency contact?” “Just us, within the department—“”Then who—“_

Levi snorted loudly and walked over to Jean, still hovering in the doorway.  “Marco’s out of surgery,” he stated.  “You can go see him.”

Jean stared, chest constricting.  “He’s awake?”

Levi sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, and shook his head.  “He’s stable, but he’s still…he’s comatose.  The internal damage wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, thanks to you.  Broke some ribs, a little bleeding…the scary part’s his head.” Levi stepped back so he could meet Jean’s eyes without having to look up.  “Cranial hemorrhage…he was bleeding into his brain.  They got it drained out and stopped the pressure, but there’s no way to assess the damage unless— _until_ he wakes up.  But you can still see him.”

“Why me?” Jean asked, in genuine confusion.  Levi gave him a long, cool _look,_ and Jean could almost see him mentally changing gears.

“The nurses said he can have one or two visitors,” he said, slowly and gently, as though talking to a child.  “The visitor should be the person closest to him.”  He took in Jean’s stricken expression and said, more normally, “You don’t have to go alone.  But it should be you.” He caught the eye of one of the surgical nurses, and then looked back to Jean and jerked his head. “Come on.”

Jean trailed Levi and one of the tired nurses through a maze of samey hallways.  They were well past the public parts of the hospital and into the eerily quiet, mechanical atmosphere of the ICU.

The nurse led them around another corner at her brisk nurse’s walk, and Jean noticed the fine-featured CPD lieutenant who’d found them on the bridge, leaning against the frame of an unmarked door. The lieutenant looked up at their approach, and smiled warmly at Jean.

Dr Lagner?” The nurse called, tapping on the door before she opened it.  Levi leaned in close to the lieutenant, asking something Jean didn’t hear.

The entire back wall of the room was a bank of of monitoring equipment, clicking and blinking little alien lights.  The doctor, a young black-haired woman with mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes, stared intently at the monitors, scribbling notes in a battered leatherbound book.  

“They can come in, he’s stabilized. Finally,” she said, still scribbling furiously.

“I’ll be right down the hall, honey,” the nurse said, placing her purple-nailed hand briefly on his shoulder.  She stepped aside, leaving nothing between him and the thing he’d been so desperately avoiding…

Marco looked...broken. Jean couldn’t find any other word to put to the sight.  The visible half of his face was sunken and shadowed, an unhealthy blue tinge lying over his pale skin.  The right side of his head was a mass of gauze, reaching from his upper jaw to his temple where a thick pad covered the sutures in his scalp.  The stitches holding his torn cheek together caused his slack mouth to curl oddly at the corner, his upper lip pulled back off his teeth in an ugly grimace.

He couldn’t quite make himself look at the empty sleeve tucked against Marco’s side.

“It looks worse than it is,” Dr. Lagner said quietly. Jean started; he’d lost track of the other occupants of the room.  “He’s got some skin grafts in his future, but the bone damage isn’t bad.  Just fractures.” She sighed, closing her notebook.  “He lost the eye, and a lot of teeth, but he can recover from that.”

She didn’t mention the hemorrhage, and Jean didn’t have the guts to ask.  He just stood silent at the foot of Marco’s bed, hugging himself, shoulders hunched.  The door opened part way and Levi slipped through; Jean could feel both their eyes on him as the silence dragged on over the backdrop of mechanized bleeps and Marco’s shallow, ragged breaths.

“You were on the bridge, right?” Dr Lagner asked.  “You pulled him of the tracks.”

Jean’s shudder must have been answer enough.  Dr. Lagner nodded sharply and took something out of her coat pocket.  “Then you should have this.”  The little glass vial rattled as she put it in Jean’s unresisting hand: it contained a long, jagged spar of thin metal, mottled with spots of blue paint.

“What is it?”

“Train shrapnel,” Dr. Lagner said with a crooked smile.  “Pulled it out of his abdominal cavity.”

Jean’s stomach rolled, and the bottle clattered on the floor.  “Why the _fuck_ would I--”

“If that had gone half an inch deeper, it would have sliced the top right off his kidney,” the surgeon said cooly. “He’d’ve bled out in about 45 seconds.”  She picked up the vial and pushed into Jean’s hand.  “Just in case you thought you were...too late. Or something.”  Her eyes flicked to Levi, and he nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I’ll give you a minute alone,” Dr. Lagner said, stifling a yawn.  “Nurse’ll be by in about 40 minutes.  If something happens...page someone else I need some sleep.”

“Thanks, Ilse.” ” Levi said, not moving from his spot by the door.

Jean didn’t see her go, eyes still locked on Marco’s ravaged face.  He should be crying.  Right? That was what people did in hospital rooms, wasn’t it? He should collapse on that moulded plastic chair and cling to Marco’s hand and curse the uncaring heavens or something.  He should be _feeling_ something, he shouldn’t just be locked in place at the foot of this bed, colder than he’d been when the freezing rain was soaking his skin, eyes so dry they burned.

“He’s dying, isn’t he,” Jean said flatly.  Behind him, Levi raised and lowered one shoulder.  “He’s gonna die, and he still thinks I hate him.   _I_ still think I might hate him.  Or love him, fuck.  He’s gonna die and I just can’t _fucking_ care.”

“It’ll come,” Levi said softly.  He watched Jean for a moment, nothing betrayed by his storm-cloud eyes.  “Let me show you something, Kirstein.”  He dropped onto one of the chairs by the bed, casually crossing one leg over the other.  After a moment, he looked up and gestured Jean over with a flash of annoyance.  Jean just sat, too tired to question it.

Levi blew out a heavy breath, and began to unwind his scarf.

“I was in Iraq in 1999,” he said, cool as ever.  “Tail end of Persian Gulf.  I was there to kill someone...specific.  And I didn’t.”  His mouth quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile.  “My employer...let’s say she didn’t bother with warning shots.”  He slid his scarf off and tilted his head to the side.

There was a small starburst scar on Levi’s neck, over the long muscle that ran down the side.  Jean could see the rhythmic flutter of his pulse under the rays surrounding the deep puncture in the center...His eyes flew up to meet Levi’s as he realized what would have left that scar.

“.36 caliber,” the captain said. “Right into the neck, point blank.”

“And you survived?” Jean breathed.  Then his brain caught up to his mouth and he blushed. Levi just laughed softly.

“Ran into this creepy little CIA probie I knew back then...he owed me a few favors.  Point is.  Irvin didn’t give up on me back then, and I was lying in the middle of the desert with a fuckin’ hole in my jugular vein.” He met Jean’s eyes for a moment, retying his damp scarf over the scar.  “Don’t _you_ give up on him.”  He looked over at Marco’s still form, and touched his hand where it lay clenched on top of the blankets.  “ _Dieu seul sait, nul aurait pleuré pour moi.”_

He stood up, maybe a little too fast, tucking the ends of his scarf into his shirt and avoiding Jean’s eyes.  “I’ll be outside,” he said, accent a little thicker than usual.  “Nanaba could probably use a coffee break.”

He left Jean alone with the clicking of the monitors, and the spiderweb tangle of his thoughts.  After a moment, he reached out like Levi had done, and touched the back of Marco’s hand.

There was no reaction, not even a twitch of a finger.

_“You_ got the easy way out, huh?” he turned away from the bed, staring at the slow pulse of the heart monitor as though waiting for it to spell out and answer.

Jean shut his eyes, fingertips still resting against Marco’s skin, and tried to find his way back to that _feeling,_ the slow burning heat low in his chest he’d been _so sure_ was love…

It had been so easy.  Twenty years of swallowing self loathing and second-hand guilt, and Marco had made it _so easy_ to just let go...but what was Marco and what was Survey, Irvin Smith speaking through his mouth and seeing through his eyes.

_I love you,_ Jean thought, _or_ did _I love you, or do I just want to believe that what I felt was love, do I just want to remember feeling something that was never really there?_

Hours ago, with the black river wind screaming in his ears, he’d been paralyzed by understanding, empathy blocking off the anger that would have set him free.  And now, he was trapped by his confusion, mind spinning through the same moebius of thoughts over and over, useless logic and futile analysis denying him the ability to even cry…

“...still in recovery ma’am, we need to keep visitors to a minimum.”  The on-duty nurse’s voice reached Jean’s ears from down the hall, underscored by the echoing tapping of heels.

“Yes, I understand.  I assume this room is his?”

“I meant immediate family only.” The nurse sounded harried.  Jean sat bolt upright and spun towards the half open door.

“Is his family present?”

“They’ve been _contacted,”_ The nurse said tartly, pulling to a stop outside Marco’s room.  She was attempting to block the path of a tan-skinned woman with a mass of long, dark curls gathered at the nape of her neck.  “I’m sorry, I cannot allow you in this room unless you are a relative of the patient.

The dark-haired woman drew herself up to her full height, which would have been imposing even without the heeled boots under her long skirt.  “Then until the lady herself arrives, you may consider _me_ his mother _.”_

“Mom?” Jean said from the doorway.

“Hi love,” his mother whispered, wrapping her arm around his shoulder.  Her eyes fell on Levi, in his usual slouched posture next to the door.  He glanced up from his phone, and they exchanged a long, cool stare.

“Corporal.”

“Mirielle,” Levi replied.  “And it’s captain now, actually.”

“Is it. Corporal.”  Mirielle glanced down at her shocked son and snorted.  “How did you _think_ a pansy-ass rich boy like you got CIA protection?”

“Ma’am, I apologize, but I really can’t--” the exasperated duty nurse began.

“Quit while you’re behind,” Levi muttered.

The nurse started to protest again, but she caught the expression on Jean’s face, and her eyes softened. “Thirty minutes,” she said, nodding towards the door.

Mirielle went straight for the chart hanging on Marco’s bed.  Jean stayed close, leaning into her side as she flipped through the pages, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

“This isn’t how I wanted to meet him,” she sighed at last, replacing the chart in its clip.  Jean shrugged, staring at the floor.  He felt his mother’s eyes on him, and her arm wrapped around him again.  “You love him, don’t you.”

Jean looked up at her sideways, through his bangs.  “It’s the way you talked about him,” she said, smiling.  

Jean looked away and shook his head, feeling like a child again.  “I thought I did...but...he--” the prospect of trying to explain the tangled mess spread itself out in his head, and Jean balked.

“I know, love.” His mom squeezed his shoulders.  “Your CPD friend filled me in when he called me.  He said you looked like you needed your mom.”  Jean huffed out a weak laugh.  He leaned into his mom’s side again, watching Marco’s chest rise and fall.

“He was so scared,” he said, and his voice caught around a sudden lump in his throat.  “When I found out...I couldn’t understand why he didn’t tell me, but… he was _so scared…”_

Mirielle put both hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her.  “You remember when you came out to me?”

“Do I _remember?”_

“Shut up honey, I’m making a point,” Mirielle said sweetly.  “I was raised...well, you know your grandparents.” Jean rolled his eyes.  “ _Thou shalt not lie with a man_ and all that bullshit...I just grew up assuming they were all perverts.  When Alek caught you...I’ve been through air raids that didn’t scare me that fucking much.  And then I looked at you, the look on your face when Alek was screaming at you, and I thought...fuck, if Leviticus don’t like it he can deepthroat a cactus, ‘cause he’s _still my kid.”_ Jean swallowed hard, and his mom squeezed his shoulders.  “It never just goes back to how it was, but it doesn’t mean it’s gone.  It’s still him, love.  He’s still yours.”

Jean shook his head.  “I don’t know…” his fingers knotted in his hair, and he repeated the words.  “I don’t know, I don’t know...I don’t know what happened, I don’t _understand…”_ he knew he sounded like a child, voice shaking and cracked.  “ _I just want him to wake up,”_ his chest felt too tight, choking the breath he tried to take.  “ _I want him to wake up, I want him--I--I--”_ his mom put her arms around him, stroking his hair, and Jean clung to her, shaking head to toe as the tears finally came.  “ _I want him to come back.”_

  


Jean only vaguely remembered his mother taking home.  She essentially frogmarched him up the stairs to his apartment and dumped him in his bed.

“I’m going back to the hospital,” she said, sitting next to him on the edge of his bed and stroking his hair again.  Jean blinked, rubbing his puffy eyes.  Mirielle laughed.  “Mom mode, love.  The instincts kick right back in.  Nobody’s kid should wake up in a hospital bed alone.”  She stood and stretched, spine popping.  “And I have a few _words_ for _dear_ Irvin...you’ll be okay on your own?”

Jean nodded, wiping at the gritty tear tracks on his cheeks.  “Just wanna sleep.”

Something poked into his hip as he lay back: Jean reached into his pocket and curled his fingers around the little vial.   _Half an inch more,_ he thought, shaking the bottle so the jagged metal spar rattled against the glass.

_I wasn’t too late...I wasn’t too late…_

Even though he’d been awake much too long, Jean’s brain overruled his body after about six hours of sleep.  He stood in the living room, watching the sky once again as the horizon darkened and the street lights flicked on one by one.  There was still a puddle of coffee out on the sidewalk, visible under the new coating of ice, and it occurred to Jean that, for anyone else, this winter storm was probably _the_ event of the last few weeks.  

When did it become _everyone else,_ he wondered... _normal_ seemed so long ago, even the weird, anxious normalcy of Marco constantly by his side (two steps ahead and one to the right) sweeping ahead of his every step.

He had two messages on his phone; the first was a text from his mom, telling him she was leaving the hospital to find a hotel, and that Marco’s condition hadn’t changed.

The second was a voicemail from Connie, telling him that Reiner Braun and Bertholdt Hoover were in a Survey safehouse somewhere out in the suburbs.  Someone had dropped Zoe an anonymous tip (right into her encrypted email account) about a gaggle of east-European kids squatting in a disused rail yard.  Connie ended the message by warning Jean that he knew of a couple OHSA prosecutors who were “gonna want to have your babies,” and Jean breathed a little easier.

He debated briefly on the ethics of _still_ driving Marco’s car all over creation, but after almost getting hit by a train Survey probably owed him at _least_ some gas mileage...he bundled himself up in more layers than was probably necessary, the bone deep chill of hypothermia still fresh in his mind.  It kept his hands moving at any rate, that was important.  Don’t stop to think, just keep moving...there were walls up now, around the hollow core of agony in his mind, but he knew they were fragile.

Put on gloves.  Find keys.  Lock the door. Don’t die on the icy steps.

Ignition. Reverse. Drive. Left turn, merge…

As he waited at a light near one of the many bridges, a fat police boat trundled down the river, figures puffy with orange thermal gear moving around the deck.  As it passed under the bridge Jean saw the long, v-shaped wake of the dredge net scraping along behind the boat, and he wrenched the car into the nearest parking lot and bowed his head, focusing on the stinging cold of the black plastic wheel against his skin until the shaking faded.

  


Inside the hospital, it seemed that time hadn’t passed at all. It was a different nurse who checked off his name on a visitor’s list, and the CPD no longer had a guard posted on Marco’s room, but through the door?  No change.  

He settled into the cracked plastic chair and leaned his elbows on the edge of Marco’s bed, watching his motionless face in the sterile hospital light. _Fractured jaw; six teeth missing or shattered, fractured eye socket, ruptured eye, cranial fractures..._ Jean closed his eyes against the throbbing headache as the list ran through his head, compiled from snippets of conversations overheard through the last 24 hours.   _Shattered rib, internal bleeding, trauma of kidney and small intestine_ and then there was the big one…Jean opened his eyes and tried to force himself to actually _look,_ his gaze skipping over Marco’s heavily bandaged shoulders and he squeezed his eyes shut again.  Some injuries just couldn’t be described by medical terminology.

_Entire fucking right arm ripped off by train…_

_“I’m sorry,”_ he mumbled into his hands, fingers shaking as he rubbed his temples.  “Will you just _wake up_ so I can tell you I’m sorry…” he squeezed Marco’s cold hand.  “I wish you could hear me…”  

He was still sitting like that at nine, one hand on Marco’s and the other pressed to his forehead, when the lights in the hallway dimmed and the purple-nailed nurse from the night before made her first rounds through the unit.  

“Here for the night shift hon?” she asked, and smiled when he nodded.  “We’ll be checking in every few hours.  Try to get some sleep, sweetheart.”

Jean dragged his chair closer and rested his head on his arms, straining to hear Marco’s breathes interspersed with the beeps and clicks of the monitors.  His heart flipped at every too-long pause, the strain squeezing at his aching head, and eventually Jean shifted position and pressed one hand flat over the side of Marco’s chest.  He fell asleep that way, concentrating on the faint, but steady pulse against his palm.

He slept fitfully, never fully awake but generally aware of the nurses coming and going, checking monitors and IVs, occasional footsteps and soft conversations in the dim halls.  Only once did he awake fully, a little after dawn, with the queasy certainty that there was another person in the room.

The nurses turned on the lights during their rounds, but this person left them off, quietly unhooking Marco’s chart and crossing the little room to examine the monitors.  In the brief second they passed in front of the door, Jean saw the sillouhette of a slender woman wearing a long coat.   _Dr. Lagner,_ he thought sleepily, shutting his eyes again.  He heard her pause when he shifted, and then a soft sigh and the click of the chart being replaced.  

And then, for a long time, no sound.  Must not have heard her leave...Jean settled his head back on his slightly numb arm, warm weight of sleep settling over him…

_“Прости, пожалуйста,”_ so softly he barely registered the words, and then, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry, forgive me.”  He heard the rustle of movement and opened his eyes as she bent down and gently pressed her lips to Marco’s forehead, light from the hall catching on her pale hair.

Jean moved too slow, struggling to disentangle his fingers from Marco’s and stumble upright on numb legs.  She was already at the end of the hall by the time he’d found his balance and made it out the door.

“ _Annie!”_  

She didn’t turn, but her stride hitched, just for a second, a tiny hesitation before she whipped around the corner and a door clattered open and shut.  

“... _wait,”_ Jean finished lamely, earning a sidelong look from a passing intern.  He scraped his hands through his hair and ducked back into Marco’s room before he could make himself look any crazier.

He was nearly asleep again before it occurred to him to wonder...he’d woken up holding Marco’s hand, their fingers tightly intertwined, but... _was I holding his hand when I fell asleep…_

* * *

 

 

Levi woke him up a few hours later, by standing in the doorway and flicking bagel crumbs at Jean’s head until he rousted.  If the amount of crumbs that fell out of his collar when he sat up was any indication, the captain had spent quite a while dialing his aim in.

“He’s got another visitor,” he said as Jean stood with a groan, his back protesting.  “And there’s coffee downstairs, get it while it lasts.”  He handed Jean the remaining half a bagel and left without another word.

“I am not _nearly_ awake enough for him,” Jean mumbled, rubbing his eyes.  He sighed and looked down at Marco, feeling the familliar hole open up in his stomach at the sight.  Marco’s hand lay limp by his side, palm up and fingers slightly spread...that was important, why was it important...was it more important than coffee…

“You’re Jean, right?” Jean blinked back to reality and turned to face the newcomer in the doorway: a young blonde-haired woman in a silvery aluminum framed wheelchair.

“Oh, uh. Hi,” he said awkwardly, completely failing to remember her name.

“I’m Historia,” she said, coming to his rescue with a smile.  “I don’t think we ever got introduced.  And this is--oh for fuck’s sake, stop hovering and get in here Miri.”  

Miri almost could have been Marco’s sister: same tall build and long legs, same dark hair, she even had a spattering of freckles across her sharp cheekbones.  She nodded to Jean, shortly, but her eyes were looking past him, to the still shape in the hospital bed.  She rested her left hand on Historia’s shoulder, and the thin engagement ring on her finger caught the light when she squeezed. Oh.

_Ymir,_ Jean realized as she came further into the room, her almond eyes fixed on Marco’s ravaged face.   _His old partner._  

“ _You fuckin’ faggot,”_ Ymir whisptered.  It was barely audible, but there was genuine venom in her voice.  “ _Idiot, idiot idiot idiot, why’d you never learn to let it go…”_ Jean opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, and Historia gently put a hand on his arm

“I think she needs a minute alone,” she whispered, her eyes soft with affection.  “C’mon, let’s go get some coffee.”  If Ymir noticed when they left she didn’t show it; her eyes were shut tight and her hands balled into fists at her sides, tight enough to send tremors up her arms.  

“You’re probably sick of hearing it,” Historia said as Jean filled a flimsy paper cup from the coffee urn by the nurse’s station, “but I know how you feel.”

Jean just shrugged tiredly, slumping onto a nearby bench and picking at the cracked upholstery.  “Everyone seems to have some idea…”

“Yeah, but I _actually_ know.”  Historia braced one delicate hand on the arm of her chair and the other on the bench, and levered herself onto the seat next to Jean in a ridiculously graceful movement, arranging herself with one leg crossed neatly over the other.  “I’m Historia _Reiss._ My dad was the biggest meth distributor in this _hemisphere._ I know what it’s like, walking past a newsstand and wondering where you’re gonna see your name _today…_ ” She looked up at him with a crooked smile.  “You never get used to it, right?  That feeling that ‘cause it’s your name it ought to somehow be your fault?”

Jean just stared at the oily surface of his bitter hospital coffee, aware of Historia’s eyes on his face.  

“You’re a lot like him.” She sipped her coffee and made a face.  “ _Bleh,_ that’s worse than Survey coffee…y’know, there’s something Ymir said, about the time I got out of the hospital--” she leaned to the side and elbowed her wheelchair.  “She said...guilt takes a special kind of arrogance.  I mean, if you’re gonna believe something’s all your fault, you’ve gotta believe you had the power to change it in the first place.  You’ve got to be _selfish,_ to think like that.”

“She said that about _Marco?”_

Just for a second, Historia looked genuinely confused, but then she smiled again.  “Oh, he probably got the same lecture,” she said with a laugh.  She leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, liquid eyes soft and distant.  “He was so convinced that I got shot ‘cause of him...I don’t think it ever occured to him that _he_ was only in harm’s way because of _me--”_

“ _Jean!”_

Jean and Historia both started as Ymir tumbled out into the hallway, eyes huge in her pale face.

“ _His heart monitor’s going off!”_ she blurted, as a doctor ran past her with a pager in his hand.  Jean’s heart stopped dead in his chest, edges of his vision going fuzzy and it must have showed on his face because Ymir grabbed his shoulders.  “No, no he’s not crashing--it’s _picking up--”_

“The hell are you waiting for?” Historia pushed Jean to his feet and punched him in the shoulder (his entire arm went numb.) “Get in there, idiot!”

Dr. Lagner got there a second after Jean and Ymir, hurrying to the buzzing monitor.  One of the nurses with her grabbed the hospital bed’s control and the top half inclined slowly.  Jean knelt by Marco’s bed, skinning his knees on the coarse carpet, watching his face as the slow beeping continued to pick up speed…

His eyelashes fluttered, just for a second, Ymir sucked in a breath and Jean knew she’d seen it to.  Marco shivered, bandages on his face stretching oddly...and very slowly rolled his head to the side and looked at Jean.

He coughed a few times and then spoke, very faintly.

“ _Ow.”_

Jean started to laugh, even though his eyes were burning.  Ymir  just slumped foreward, shaking her head.  “You’re _so_ stupid…,” she whispered, smiling ear to ear.  “So so _so_ stupid--”  Marco blinked at the sound of her voice.  He tried to turn his head, his eye fuzzy and unfocused and it seemed to slip off her face rather than seeing her.  

“ _Miri?_ Miri, where are you?  Where-- _Jean--”_ the beeping monitor doubled in speed as Marco’s breath caught and he started to cough again.

“I’m here, Marco, I’m right here--”

“ _Jean!”_ One of the nurses leaned in to grab his shoulders and Marco pushed her away, _hard,_ the IV needle in his hand pulling at the skin.  “Jean, where are you, I can’t--” he froze, hand outstretched only a few inches from his face. His heart rate spiked, the monitor flashing red in a wild arrythmia.  “ _I can’t see--”_

Jean leaned over him and grabbed his hand.  Marco clung to him, hand shaking convulsively.  “ _I can’t see you,”_ he whispered.

Jean did the only thing he could think of, which was uncurl Marco’s trembling fingers and press his palm against his face, tears trickling around the edges of his fingers.  “ _I’m here,”_ he said again, stroking the back of his hand with a thumb.  Marco let out a shuddering gasp, squeezing his eyes shut.  

“Eren?” he asked hoarsly, and Jean rolled his eyes.   _Of course, you just woke up in the hospital, worry about everyone else first…_

“He’s fine,” Jean said, making himself smile so Marco could feel it.  “His arm’s in a sling, he’s fine…”

“A-armin?” and Jean could tell from the tremor in his voice that Marco already knew.  He bit his lip, hard, and Marco let his head fall back, gritting his teeth.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears leaking from the corner of his uncovered eye.  “Oh God, Jean I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry--”

“ _Marco…”_ Jean squeezed his hand again, reaching out to brush the tears off his cheek.  Marco opened his eye at the touch, seeming to focus a little more, and the frantic beeping began to slow down just a little.  “Not now, okay?  Not today…” He leaned in, hesitantly, and kissed the corner of his mouth.  Marco shivered.  “We’ll figure it out, alright?  We’ve got _time_ now.  We’ll figure it out.”

* * *

 

File no. 55-104

TRANSCRIPT OF: Deposition Statement, Commander Smith, Irvin, Survey Intelligence Group.  Interviewing Agent: Maj. Nile Dawke, Federal Bureau of Investigation

SUBJECT MATTER PERTAINING TO: Trost Station incident (13 December 2013) and the ongoing investigation into the death of Armin Artlet.

[RECORDING BEGINS]

_Please state your name and rank for the record._

Irvin Smith.

_Your rank, please._

Higher than yours.

_Commander, you are testifying under oath.  A little decorum would be appreciated._

My apologies, Major.  I didn’t realize this was such a sensitive subject.

[Audible sigh] _The purpose of this deposition is to establish the motivation behind the actions of Survey on December 13th, 2013.  You were present for the incident in question, correct?_

That is correct.

_While I realize this may be a sensitive subject, given the outcome of the Trost Station incident...Commander Smith, please give me your own assesment of the role you played in the civilian loss of life at Trost Station._

Which one?

_I beg your pardon?_

Oh, Nile, my apologies. I hadn’t realized you weren’t part of the chain of evidence.  Mike should have informed you about the second body.  I’ll have a word with him.

_Explain yourself, Irvin._

The drag nets caught _two_ bodies.  The second was listed as a Jane Doe until recently; we finally got DNA samples for a positive match.  

_And the identity of this mysterious second body?_

Isn’t it obvious, Nile? Annie Leonhardt.

_Leonhardt._

Didn’t you get the call transcripts? She was heavily involved in the incident. Our analysts are quite certain she made the threat of sabotage against the northbound train.  She must have fallen from the bridge in the storm.  I can’t believe you didn’t know.

_Do me a favor and stop smiling, Smith.  I just ate._ [Conversation ceases for 90 seconds; whistling audible in background.]   _I suppose if I told you a caucasian Jane Doe of 23-27 years of age was just listed as mistakenly cremated by the city morgue, you’d be shocked._

Clerical error causes so much damage, doesn’t it?

_Speaking of damage, who gave you the black eye?_

[RECORDING TERMINATED]

 

* * *

 

**Strings: A Serial Adventure Story will conclude**

_in_

**Ave Maria**

 

* * *

 


	15. Ave Maria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: [Fields of the Heart](http://kenjiandcompany.tumblr.com/post/83179288354)
> 
> Words here at a time

 

“Ok this,” Marco said, a little indistinctly, “is _really_ strange.”  He balanced a plastic hand mirror on his knees and poked gingerly at the new patches of skin on the right side of his face.

“You’ve got more silicone in you than Joan Rivers,” Jean agreed sagely.  He was slouched in a chair, feet propped on the end of Marco’s bed, idly playing 2048 on his phone.  He glanced up.  “And stop messing with the skin grafts.”

Marco sighed and dropped his hand away from his bandaged cheek (although there was significantly less gauze than there had been two weeks ago, as his first set of skin grafts healed.) “I am. So bored,” he announced, tossing the mirror off to the side and flopping back against his pillows.

“Well, that’s an improvement, right? Yesterday you were too stoned to be bored.”

Marco grinned at the ceiling.  “Those were _good_ drugs.” He winced a second later as the movement stretched his tender face, and Jean thought his smile looked…not quite fake, but _fragile_ , like it would break at a breath of wind.  The fine web of lines at the corner of his eye deepened with the pain; there were more of them now, and he still looked thin and tired.

Jean hesitated for a second, and then dropped his eyes back to his phone screen and slumped down in his chair again, pretending he hadn’t seen anything while Marco pretended nothing was wrong.  Jean knew he wasn’t fooling Marco and Marco _had_ to know he wasn’t fooling Jean, and the silence in the hospital room hung just a little heavier on the air.

“Hey,” Marco said, sitting up a little as Jean huffed and restarted his game for the hundredth time.  “Thanks.  For spending all this time here.  I mean, if _I’m_ bored you must be—“ he broke off as Jean laughed.

“I dunno man, you are pretty entertaining when you’re coming off anesthesia.”

“Still, you had to have been here for…what, eighteen hours yesterday?”

“Um…I suppose you’d’ve found out eventually…” Jean put his phone down and rubbed his neck awkwardly.  “I didn’t actually get here ‘til yesterday evening…”

“What? You were there when I woke up.”

“Not exactly… _Mo_ was there when you woke up…”

“What.”

Jean grinned.  “Turns out you can’t actually tell us apart when you’re blitzed out on painkillers.”

Marco flopped back and put his hand over his eyes.  “That _would_ explain why I remember two of you.”

“Yeah, for a while we were just switching off being me to see if you’d notice.  And then Mo tried convincing you that I was _him…_ you didn’t buy that one, but you believed two of me for some reason.”

“ _Sue_ me, I have a type,” Marco muttered into his hand, and Jean laughed harder.

“How’re you seeing, anyway?” Jean asked, leaning back and wiping his eyes.  “Any better?”

Marco shrugged, the movement awkward and lopsided like so many others, thanks to the missing arm.  “I’m not sure if it’s better, or I’m just getting used to it.  Everything’s still kind of…brown.  They said my brain’s trying to rewire itself, after…” he gestured to the thick pad taped over his empty eye socket.  His expression was carefully blank, but the second Jean sat forward he turned his head away.

Jean pulled his feet off the end of Marco’s bed and scooted his chair closer.  He was breaking a sort of uneasy boundary they’d silently established since Marco woke up, both of them keeping a too-careful, too-casual distance that felt too much like the intoxicating strangeness of the days after Jean kissed him on Halloween.  In those few weeks, he’d caught Marco’s eyes on him all the time, lingering longer and softer than a bodyguard’s should: he could look up at almost any moment and see those wide, watchful eyes flick away.  And then there were the few times, in Jean’s apartment or isolated corners of the library or the lawschool, when he didn’t look away, and Jean would watch Marco watch him, until (always) Marco would dip his head, and smile to himself.  Marco was always watching.

And now, when Jean propped his elbows on the edge of his bed and leaned forward (closer than he’d been in days, closer than he’d been since the night Marco woke up,) Marco looked away.

“Hey,” he said.  “You don’t have to hide it, you know.” Marco’s jaw clenched, muscles flexing under the bandages.

“Marco…hey, c’mon…” Jean reached out, and nearly lost his nerve before touching his fingertips to Marco’s jaw, just below the bandages.  Marco’s breath hitched, but when Jean tried to turn his head he resisted, head twisted to the side and eyes firmly downcast.  He raised his hand, but seemed to freeze somewhere between taking Jean’s hand in his, and pushing it away.  He took another unsteady breath, his fingers trembling against Jean’s.

“That’s the ugly part,” he whispered, his voice low and harsh.

Jean opened his mouth and closed it again, temporarily deprived of the ability to speak any language other than “fish.”  They stayed that way for several long, silent minutes, just the tips of their fingers touching, before he managed to make a sound.

“Marco,” he croaked, and Marco opened his eye to look at him, although he still refused to turn his head.  “Marco, _trust me…_ you weren’t awake to _see_ the ugly part.”

At that, Marco _did_ turn his head, so fast that the movement knocked Jean’s hand away, and he looked straight at him for the first time, staring at him in the heavy silence they were both too scared to break.  Jean looked back, chest tight as his memory replaced the sterile white gauze with the raw, bloody ruin, black and glistening under the sodium lights…trying to put pressure on the mess where his eye used to be and feeling bones move under his hands and he jolted back to the present as Marco started crying. 

Jean’s phone clattered on the tile as he clambered over the plastic rail of the hospital bed.  Marco reached for him, his face shattered with desperation, and Jean just grabbed him and held on, kissing every trembling piece of him he could reach as Marco buried his face in his neck.

“It’s okay,” was all Jean could find to say, over and over again, pressing his cheek into Marco’s sweaty hair.  “It’s okay.” 

Marco shook his head against Jean’s shoulder, and it took him a minute to realize there were words mixed in with the muffled sobs.

“ _Why?”_ he was saying, whenever he could get the breath to speak.  “ _Why me?”_

Jean just shook his head, trying to find a way to hold him tighter without squeezing the broken ribs and the empty socket at his right shoulder.  He ended up with the fingers of one hand tangled tightly in Marco’s hair, running the other up and down his back in long, slow strokes.  “You have to ask?” he said eventually, hoarse and choked.  “You _saved_ me.”

Marco’s good arm wound around his waist and he squeezed with bone-crunching force.  “That’s my line,” he mumbled into Jean’s shoulder, but his lips moved against his skin in a way that felt like a smile.

Jean bent his head and burrowed into his hair again, letting himself feel Marco’s every breath against his chest. “Shut up,” he whispered, there was a pressure on his heart that had nothing to do with Marco’s weight.  He carefully trailed his fingers up Marco’s neck, and over the bandages on the side of his face.  “I did a _shit_ job of it.”

“Still my line.”

Jean blew out a long, exasperated breath through his nose.  “Will you hurry up and heal so I can _punch_ you?”

The noise Marco made into his shoulder was weak and stuffy, choked by the drugs and the pain and the tears, but it was still a laugh. 

“It’s gonna be a _long_ time, Jean,” he whispered.

“I know.”  The worn-down exhaustion in Marco’s voice made his eyes burn.

“You don’t have to stay,” Marco said.  He pushed Jean’s arms off, sitting up as much as he was able.  His English was slipping, the faint lisp of his old accent creeping in around the edges. “I know you feel responsible, but you don’t deserve this—“

“Marco…”

“ _You_ shouldn’t have to be trapped in this fucking place—“

“ _Marco!_ Stop it!” Jean grabbed his shoulders with as much force as he dared, his patience fraying by the second.  Marco looked right at him again, his remaining eye wide with shock.

“If you _really_ think, after everything we’ve been through, that I’m only sticking around ‘cause I feel _guilty—“_ he trailed off, briefly at a loss for words, and closed his eyes.  “—then you’re fucking _insane,”_ he snarled. 

There was a long silence filled with Marco’s shaky breathing, and Jean could tell he was crying again. 

_“Why?”_

_“I want you back!”_ Jean exploded.  He leaned in again, curled his hands around Marco’s face and pressed their foreheads together.  Marco’s breath hitched. “The _real_ you,” Jean said quietly.  “Obnoxiously upbeat and incapable of seeing anything but the best in everyone and so _fucking_ annoying…I want to go back to constantly either wanting to kiss you or punch your teeth out.  I want the _real_ Marco who’s not scared and guilty all the time –“ he paused for breath “—and he seems to get buried when I’m not around.”

Marco shook his head, resting his hand on Jean’s wrist, tears dripping onto their skin. “That hasn’t been the real Marco in…in a long time.  I don’t know if that ever _was_ the real Marco…” he said shakily.

Jean blew out an exasperated breath and pushed him back far enough that he could look into his face, although he didn’t let him go.  “Yeah? _Well it fucking is to me. Look_ Marco, you fucked up, you lied to me and Survey lied to me and none of that is just gonna go away, but—“ he hesitated, scraping a hand through his hair, and then continued in a rush.  “All I know is I never would have had the guts to stare down a gun barrel before you told me I was brave.” 

He ran his thumb over Marco’s cheek, catching a few of the tears. “And I think you need _me_ around to remind you you’re a guardian.   _My_ guardian…aw fuck, don’t cry…”

Marco shook his head, letting out another slightly choked laugh.  “You’re so… _dramatic…”_

 _“Shut up, Marco.”_ Jean slid his arms around his neck, nuzzling his nose against Marco’s, and Marco tilted his head and gently pressed his lips to Jeans.

Kissing him felt different, would probably never feel the same again…there was the odd curl where the stitches pulled at the corner of Marco’s mouth, his face under Jean’s hands thinner and sharper, but it was _Marco_ and beyond that Jean truly didn’t care. 

It didn’t last long before Marco broke away, leaning into Jean’s chest with a heavy sigh.  “Sorry…sitting up is hard… _mmm…”_ he hummed happily as Jean scratched his fingers through his hair, settling them both back against the inclined upper half of the hospital bed.  “Isn’t this against the rules?” 

Jean shrugged.  “Levi’s still hanging around outside.  I doubt they’re gonna complain much.” Marco chuckled into his neck. 

“ _Good,”_ he mumbled, consciousness clearly fading fast.  “Don’ go anywhere…”

“You just _try_ getting rid of me.” 

* * *

A few days before Christmas, Jean and Mirielle slogged out to O’Hare in the midst of the holiday traffic to meet an incoming flight from Brussels.

At first glance, there actually wasn’t much resemblance between Ana Bodt and her son, Jean reflected as they drove back to the hospital, his mother and Marco’s conversing in rapid-fire French in the front seat.  Apart from the freckles, of course.  Marco’s black hair and big eyes were the legacy of his American father, who Jean had seen only in pictures, but his long-legged, broad-shouldered build must have come from his mother. 

Ana looked pale and strung-out getting off the plane, but her smile when she greeted Jean was genuinely warm. 

“He _did_ say you were handsome,” she’d said in accented English, kissing both his cheeks. 

“His father did have _that_ going for him, if nothing else,” Mirielle said with a distant smile, and the two women exchanged a distinctly _mom_ smile over Jean’s head as he shuddered.

“How is he?” Ana asked him quietly, as they walked through the labyrinthine parking structure.

“Coherent.  _Loopy_ , but coherent.  Though that’s probably as much cabin fever as painkillers.”  Ana smiled a very motherly smile and shook her head.

“And what about _you?”_ she asked.  “Are you okay?” she clarified, when Jean just blinked at her in confusion.  “You’re very quiet.

Jean tilted his head.  “How….how much did he tell you?  About his assignment.”

Ana sighed.  “Oh, I knew there were things he couldn’t tell me.  Thirty years working in an embassy, you learn to spot the signs.  And I knew he didn’t like it much.”

Jean shrugged awkwardly, scraping a hand through his hair and leaving it sticking up in all directions (he’d been going a few days between showers lately.)  “Probably best if he tells you himself,” he sighed, leading her over to the nurses’ station.

Jean left the two alone and padded down the hall to the familiar waiting room with the view of the lake.  Zoe looked up from the screen of her purple DS and waved as he flopped into a chair next to her.

“No reporters today?” Jean asked, rubbing his eyes.  Zoe grinned.

“Nah.  It’ll take ‘em a few days to get their balls back.  And get their cameras back from the CPD.”

Jean grinned too, despite his headache.  Over the past few weeks Mike Zacharius had made it his personal duty to keep the media off Marco’s back.  Everything related to the disaster on the Trost Station bridge was technically classified as part of a CIA operation, and Mike had seized that fact as an opportunity to cheerfully confiscate every camera that came within sniffing distance of the hospital.  Mike had been around a lot, in fact, as much as any of the Survey people who kept up the vigil outside Marco’s room.  Jean hadn’t quite figured out how the soft-spoken captain’s mind worked, but since the night on the bridge he seemed to have decided that Jean was _his,_ and Jean was ridiculously grateful.

“Thank God for Mike,” he muttered, and Zoe snorted.

“Don’t give ‘im too much credit.  Mike has to worry about police brutality statutes.  Your mother, less so.”  Jean rolled his eyes. His mother was downstairs with Mike now, “guarding the perimeter,” and Jean had fled to the waiting room to avoid the flirting.  Mirielle had already been threatened with more than one lawsuit by various online journalists trying to expose the CIA conspiracy.

They weren’t entirely wrong, either, Jean mused, listening to Zoe mutter under her breath about Pokeballs.  But when you heard the words ‘CIA coverup,’ they always brought to mind something bigger and scarier than an angry kid who missed his granddad. 

These long, boring days in the hospital were the calm before the storm.  They all knew it, but the knowledge remained unspoken, just a kind of ugly shadow in the air.  Sooner or later, the OHSA prosecutors would be ready to make their move and the calm would break, the whole ugly story spread out for the world to see. 

And it would be wrong.

That was the worst part, the part that liked to ooze up out of the depths of his brain in the middle of the night, when he’d almost succeeded in dozing off in one of the uncomfortable chairs.  Oh, they’d paint Marco as a hero, Reiner and Bertholdt as victims of the cruel corporate machine, and that was fine, as far as it went.  But this story needed villains, and the villains would be…

Jean had nearly swallowed his tongue when a late night news cycle announced that the drag nets caught a second body, a young, fair-haired woman, downstream from the bridge.  _No…no, there’s no way, it was her, I_ saw _her it had to be her…it_ had _to be…_ and Mike had leaned over the back of his chair and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.  And that had to be enough, all he had to tell him that the person he owed so much was still alive.

“I keep having _dreams_ about it,” Jean told Historia, a few days after New Years.  “If she hadn’t called me…I would’ve just… _found_ him, you know?  He’d just be lying there, ripped to shreds and none of us would ever know how it happened. And also Uno.”

_“Draw four, motherfucker.”_

They were sitting on the old leather bench by the coffee machine again, playing cards in the dim after-hours lighting.  It had become a ritual for the two of them, during these long late nights while Marco slept off the effects of yet another surgery.  Jean swore under his breath and started drawing cards. 

“We’d have lost without her,” he said, more to himself than Historia.  “Lost fucking _hard…_ and now I never get to tell her how much I…owe…her…” he trailed off as he remembered who he was talking to (and whose wheelchair he was currently using as a footrest.)  Historia raised her eyebrows and he blushed and bit his tongue.  “Sorry…I forgot…um…sorry.  Blue.”

Historia just gave him a long, searching look, and then set down her hand of cards.  “Listen, Jean.”  She slid the cards out of the way and scooted closer.  “I’ve never told anyone this, not even Ymir…I mean, she knows, but we don’t say anything…look, the last two years, I’ve gotten…lucky.  A lot.  Like some big dealership just _gave_ me a custom car, with hand controls, you know.  Totally out of the blue.  And when we got engaged, Ymir found us an accessible apartment and they suddenly dropped the rent to two-fifty a month.  Just…little random strokes of luck like that.  I mean, we could’ve been _fucked._ Survey helped when they could, but she’d quit her job and I had all those medical bills, and we both wanted to go back to school _and_ we wanted to get married…but we just kept getting _lucky._ And then someone broke into Ymir’s safe deposit box…”

“ _That_ doesn’t sound lucky.”

“You’d think…’cept, they didn’t take anything.”  She braced a hand on the bench and rotated her body, and leaned comfortably against Jean’s shoulder.  “They _left_ something.”

She extended her left hand at arm’s length in front of her face, and the delicate filigree ring on her finger sparkled in the dim track lighting.

“Annie told me about it once, before the shit hit the fan,” Historia said, her smile a little sad around the edges.  Her mother left her an engagement ring…it was her grandmother’s, one of a pair, I suppose.  I’d never seen it, but…the bank called Ymir, and she opened up that little box and I just _knew…_ she said it was meant to be worn, not just sit in a box on a shelf.”  Historia lowered her hand, tracing her thumb over the tiny diamonds set in the band of her ring.  “She doesn’t think she can be forgiven,” she whispered.

 _And she did it all for those two kids,_ Jean thought.  He’d ended up with his arm lying quite naturally over Historia’s shoulder, and she rested her head on his arm, still fiddling with her ring.  _No wonder Marco adored her.  She’s a guardian, just like him.  A guardian angel…_

Jean tried, and utterly failed, to stifle a slightly crazy laugh, and it came out as a strangled, choking cough.  Historia sat back and gave him an enquiring stare as he gave up and doubled over laughing.

“Sorry…sorry…I just…” he sucked in a breath and wiped his eyes.  “She’s like a-a-a fairy _fuckin’_ god mother.  Except instead of magicking you a dress she gave you a _ring…_ by breaking into a bank—“

Historia stared at him for another second, and then her lips twitched and she cracked up along with him. “Oh my _God_ you’re right.  I have a fairy godmother.  A tiny, angry, Russian fairy godmother.”

“Bibbity-bobbity- _boom—“_ the laughing continued until a passing nurse gave them a dirty look.  Historia grinned sheepishly at him, and sighed. 

“I just hope she’s _way_ far away by now,” she said.  “Somewhere nice and warm…”  Jean shrugged, watching the spots of light reflected from her ring shift and sparkle on the opposite wall.

 _He almost bled to death in my arms,_ Jean thought, Annie’s soft Russian accent echoing around his head.  _And when you know what_ that _is like,_ then _you can ask me why I care._ He shut his eyes and just for an instant felt the burning splash of arterial blood against his skin.  Anyone who knew would never have to ask the question.

“Y’know, somehow I don’t think she’ll have gone very far.” 

* * *

On March 1st, 2014, the OHSA filed a sixty-two count indictment against the executive board of Kirstein Chemical.  On March 2 nd, Jean and Eren pulled an all-nighter, sitting on the stained carpet of Marco’s new hospital room a floor up from the ICU, and read every word of the two hundred page document.

At around 6:30 in the morning, Jean stared blankly at the legal seal on his laptop screen, and then silently pushed it off his lap and left the room.  He came back with two Styrofoam coffee cups.  Eren took the proffered one awkwardly in his left hand with a grunt, and they drank in silence.

“Is this real?” Eren said eventually.  “It doesn’t feel real.”  He’d waited through five years and three failed lawsuits to see this happen, Jean recalled through the fog of tiredness.  No wonder it felt surreal.  He just shrugged wordlessly, rubbing his eyes.

The elephant in the room flapped its ears a few times.

There were two names conspicuously absent from the indictment, they both knew it.  One was Annie Leonhardt.

The other was Armin Artlet.

 _They can’t keep him buried forever,_ Jean thought.  _Sooner or later, someone’s gonna ask the question we can’t avoid, and it’ll all come out._ He lowered his hands to find Eren watching him, rubbing his half-healed shoulder under the strap of his sling.  It wasn’t hard to tell that they were both thinking the same thing.

Marco shifted with a half-asleep mumble, breaking the heavy silence.  Eren glanced up as Jean’s head whipped around, and got stiffly to his feet, cradling his arm against his body.

“I’d better give Mom ‘n Mikasa the news,” he mumbled around a jaw-popping yawn.  He hesitated halfway to the door, and clapped Jean on the shoulder.  “Thanks, Jean,” he grunted, and shuffled out, waving to the CPD officer who was back on the door – for Jean’s sake this time, not for Marco’s.

Marco shifted again, and Jean got to his feet with a groan.  “Hey.”

“’s it morning already?” Marco sat up, blinking, and Jean watched him draw a bead on the water glass on his bedside table.

Jean grinned. “Want me to get that for you?”

“ _I got this,”_ Marco said flatly, staring down the cup like it might make a break for it.  He reached out with exaggerated caution and closed his fingers around it.  “ _See?_ Who the hell needs depth perception.”

“Another three months and you’ll be ready for liquids that _stain,”_ Jean quipped, sitting on the edge of his bed.  Marco cast a longing glance towards his coffee.

Jean tucked his feet up and leaned into him, and Marco wrapped his arm around his waist. “Todays the day, huh?”

“Today’s the day.”  Jean looked up at him.  “You ready?”

Marco sighed and kissed his temple, soft lips lingering on Jean’s skin.  “No,” he said simply.  Jean reached down and laced his fingers tightly through Marco’s.

“Me either.”

Jean left, reluctantly, when a nurse arrived to change Marco’s dressings.  They’d been leaving the healing grafts on his face open to the air more and more, but his face and the empty socket of his shoulder had to stay covered at night.  Ana Bodt caught him in the hall on her way to Marco’s room and pointed him downstairs, to the normal cluster of Survey people (plus Mike and Mirielle) outside a small conference room.  Irvin was deep in conversation with a youngish man with prematurely graying hair, but Levi looked up and nodded to Jean as he approached. 

“Let’s do the show right here, eh?” he said by way of greeting.  “They’re doing Irvin first, but don’t go too far.”  Through the glass door of the conference room, a petite auburn-haired woman dressed in delicate pastels was setting up a cheap digital camera on a tripod.  That side of the table was coated in notepads and legal documents.  As Jean watched, she turned on the camera and came to the half-open door. 

“Commander? Auruo? Let’s get started.”

Petra Ral didn’t look much like a high-power prosecutor, slightly built, and soft-spoken and courteous to a fault.  Jean had done enough research on her to know it was all part of a performance: her sweet feminine image belied a mind that made her a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom, and the deferential courtesy lasted just long enough for her opponents to completely underestimate her.

Her frequent partner Auruo Bossard, was almost her mirror image.  He gave the impression of nothing but overconfident bluster, hammering witnesses with redundant or barely relevant questions.  He seemed dull and easily confused right up to the moment when his witnesses found all the irrelevant details they’d so condescendingly explained coming back with a spin on them.  It was generally at that point they remembered he’d been accepted into Yale Law at the age of nineteen.

They were ideally suited to tear the Kirstein Co. executives to shreds. 

Petra and Auruo certainly weren’t typical lawyers, but Jean had still been surprised to see Levi greet both of them with genuine warmth.  Zoe and Petra reacted to seeing each other with twin earsplitting squeals of delight and a series of giggling hugs.  _Survey people,_ Jean thought, watching Mo and Auruo cover their ears with resigned expressions.  _We recognize our own…_

Commander Irvin’s deposition lasted most of the morning.  Jean broke out the Uno cards again; he’d become an expert at killing time in the hospital, with Historia and Ymir (and Marco, when he was awake) as his willing tutors. 

About two hours later, Dr. Lagner brought Marco downstairs in a wheelchair, deaf to his protests that he could walk _fine._ “Rules are rules,” she said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder.  “Besides, judging by your last eye exam your balance probably isn’t as good as you think it is.”

Marco still thanked her with a smile, but Jean could see the barely-concealed frustration in his face as he rolled himself over with a foot.  Hard as he tried to keep his spirits up, the endless toll of his injuries was starting to wear him down.  Jean reached out and took his hand again, searching for something to say.

“Are those my pants?”

Silence probably would have been better than that.  _Probably._ Marco looked down at his black jeans and extended a leg: they were noticeably a few inches too short. 

“This would appear to be the case, yes.”

“I _wondered_ where those ended up.” 

Ana leaned over and whispered something to Mirielle, who smirked and nodded.  Jean and Marco exchanged a look of mutual understanding: they were likely to rue the day their mothers became friends.  But Marco was smiling again.   

Mirielle and Mike were down to two cards each and Jean had most of the deck in his hand when the conference room door opened and Irvin emerged, looking tired.  “Marco? You’re up.”

Marco closed his eyes for a long moment, and then gritted his teeth and rolled himself back away from the table.  “Jean,” he said quietly, and extended a hand.  “Help me out.”

“Doing what?”

“Breaking the rules.” Marco grabbed Jean’s hand and the little group went dead silent as, agonizingly slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.  He wavered almost immediately, and Jean’s free hand shot out to rest on his waist, steadying him until he found his balance again.  For a moment they stood nose to nose, Jean holding Marco’s hand and his arm around his waist like they were about to dance (like Marco was about to kiss him in the freezing rain, stormwinds howling through the struts of the Trost river bridge)…and then Marco loosened his grip and stepped carefully back, standing on his own for the first time in three months. 

“I’m ready, sir,” he said, his voice marked by a faint tremor of exertion.  Irvin met his eyes (one whole one patched) and then he simply nodded.  Somehow, Jean got the impression that single nod carried more weight than anything the commander could have said aloud.

He saw Marco clench his teeth again as Jean guided him across the hall, curling and uncurling his left hand convulsively, so tight his knuckles cracked every time his fist clenched. 

They’ll make him tell the whole story…Jean realized.  Right from the beginning, in his own words…he looked from the frosted glass door to Marco’s pale face.  And in his own words…it’ll all be his fault.  He forgets when I’m not around to remind him.

Petra held the door open for them, and Marco dropped into the cushy chair opposite the camera with a relieved sigh. 

“You’re next,” she told Jean cheerfully.  “Don’t go anywhere.”  It was a dismissal, albeit a polite one, but… _he forgets when I’m not around to remind him…_

“Let me stay.  Please, let me be here,” Jean blurted.  Petra and Auruo both blinked at him, and behind them Marco stared at him, lips parted in surprise.

“This is supposed to be closed-doors—“ Petra began, and then she looked from Marco’s face to Jean’s and hesitated.  “You’re pre-law, right?”

Jean nodded, and Petra grinned.  “ _Perfection!_ Welcome to your first official job shadow.  Have a seat, we’ll bullshit you some paperwork tomorrow.  Auruo, please _God_ tell me the camera is off.”

The camera was off.  Petra flicked it on and refocused it on Marco’s face. 

“Okay, Marco…start from the beginning.  Wherever you feel that is.”

Marco stayed silent for a long time, his limited field of view flicking from Petra to the camera and back…and then he turned his head slightly, and let his gaze settle on Jean’s face. 

“On August 3rd, 2013,” he said, not to her, not to the camera, not to anyone but Jean, “Commander Smith walked into my cubicle and asked me if I wanted to be a bodyguard again…”

If Irvin’s deposition had been long, Marco’s was a marathon.  His voice was giving out by the time he got to their trip to the archives at Maria, and his own accidental discovery of the video on the Survey network. 

“So that was the first indication you had that the threats against Jean weren’t genuine?”  Petra asked.  Marco started to answer, and then coughed and nodded.  “And you only learned later that the second threat came from Artlet?  Trying to twist the situation to his own advantage.”

Marco started to nod again, and then he froze, his fuzzy gaze swinging back to Jean.  His hand clenched again, nails cutting into his skin.  Petra and Auruo exchanged a glance, and Auruo reached up and paused the little camera.

Petra stood up and walked around the long conference table, taking a seat next to Marco rather than across from him. 

“Listen, Marco,” she said gently.  “I’m not prosecuting Armin Artlet.  He’s beyond any judgment it’s in my power to give.  He’s a victim of Maria, as much as anyone.  I don’t want anyone in my courtroom to see a monster.  I want them to see what he was…” she trailed off.

“A scared, hurt kid who missed his granddad,” Jean finished for her. 

“Tell me _that_ story,” Petra said.  “Tell me what you saw in him.”  She stood again, and then paused.  “Marco, while we’re off the record…I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to, but I need to know.”  She put her hand over his on the polished tabletop, and said, gently as she could, “When Armin fell…did he lose his grip? Or did he let go?”

Marco looked away then, biting his lip ‘til a spot of blood bloomed at the corner of his mouth.  Jean was out of his chair in a second, dropped to his knees next to Marco and threw his arms around his neck.  He felt Marco start at the touch – he’d knelt on his blindside, stupid stupid stupid – but a second later he returned Jean’s embrace, briefly hiding his face in Jean’s hair.

“I don’t know,” was all he said, after a long silence.  “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Not_ your smartest decision, macho-man,” Dr. Lagner grumbled, tapping her fingers against Marco’s knee and watching the reaction.  “But it doesn’t look like you fucked anything up too bad.  You _will,_ however, be getting a very thorough lecture from your physical therapist about pelvic stress fractures.  And one from _me_ about what happens if you rupture intestinal sutures.”  She whacked his other knee, probably harder than necessary judging by the wince, and sat back, making a note in her ever-present leather journal. 

“Sorry,” Marco said meekly.

“And _you,”_ Ilse said, rounding on Jean, “had better not encourage him again.  I give you full permission to kneecap him next time.  Better knees than a new hole in your small intestine.”

“Sorry.”

Ilse glared at them both for a second more, and then got to her feet.  “It’s supposedly in the seventies out there today,” she said with a faint smile.  “Balcony door’s unlocked, you should go enjoy it.”

Marco sat bolt upright. “Outside?”

“Go nuts.  Get yourself some coffee too, I think your system can handle it.  And _stay in the goddamn chair.”_

“But I can go outside?”

Jean stood up and stretched.  His legalese-fueled all-nighter was catching up to him, and coffee sounded wonderful.  “So I say we roll you over to the cafeteria and—“

“ _Outside outside outside outside!”_

“Holy _balls,_ dude—“

Marco half-dragged him the length of the hall, to the double doors that opened onto a wide brick-paved veranda overlooking the lake.  It wasn’t _quite_ seventy degrees, but the breeze blowing off the steel-gray water was warm and wet with the promise of spring. 

Marco let his head flop over the back of the wheelchair, letting the momentum carry him across the damp brickwork.  Jean leaned against the doorframe and tugged his threadbare red hat a little further over his ears, and just _watched_ Marco for a few minutes, face tilted up to the cloudy sky with the most genuine smile Jean had seen from him in…months.  Since before he went back to Belgium in November and the bottom dropped out of their world.  And he realized, watching Marco grin goofily at the low-hanging clouds, that he’d only ever doubted him when he wasn’t around…only when Marco was gone did his old insecurity take control, feeding back all his doubts about himself in and endless loop that shattered the instant Marco smiled.

 _I need you,_ he thought, letting his legs carry him across the balcony so he could lean over the back of the wheelchair and wrap his arms around his neck.  _There’s part of me that gets lost when I’m not with you, something I’d forgotten ‘til you reminded me I’d always had it._ Marco leaned back into him, nuzzling his face into Jean’s neck. 

“Hey,” he murmured, his breath warm against Jean’s skin in the cool air.

“Hey what.”

“I wanna get up.” Marco shrugged out of his hold and reached out a hand again.  “Pull.”

“Ilse is going to _kill_ me,” Jean muttered. 

“Worthwhile risk.  I’m sick of being shorter than you.”  Marco steadied himself against the railing and looked out over the cold expanse of the great lake. 

“Yeah, well at least you were already used to being uglier than me.”

“Oh come on,” Marco grinned at him. “Admit it, you think the eyepatch is hot.”

“The eyepatch _is_ a little bit hot.  _Only_ a little.”

They lapsed into silence, leaning on the railing and watching the little whitecaps far out on the water.  After awhile Marco shifted, balancing himself carefully, and wrapped his arm around Jean, pulling him tight into his side.  “You’re thinking about Armin, aren’t you?” he asked.

Jean closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of the gentle breeze ruffling his bangs and Marco’s warm, solid presence beside him…all the things that held this moment so far away from that frozen black bridge over the Rubicon of their lives.  Marco didn’t push it, but he leaned over and pressed another kiss to Jean’s temple. 

“Can you _imagine_ what he could have been?  With a mind like that…” Jean shook his head.  “If he hadn’t been so…driven, by all that hatred…” He watched the breakers splash against the gravely shoreline below, a part of him remembering the shy, sweet kid he’d known years ago, before the pain and the anger and the hatred ate him alive. 

“He could’ve saved the world,” Marco whispered.

Jean looked up at him, the familiar lines around his dark eyes, the freckles and the new scars that spread across his nose.  “You’re not angry at him, are you?”

“Neither are you.”

“Nah…” Jean shrugged, resting his chin on his arms.  Far out above the water, and osprey dipped down out of the mist below the clouds and skated across the breakers, leaving a trail of spray that sparkled in the weak sunlight breaking through the clouds.  “Hatred’s too _easy._ Comforting, you know?  So’s guilt…Historia taught me that.  Either _nothing’s_ your fault, or everything is and either way you’re just hiding from a world you don’t want to face.  Moving on, _that’s_ the hard part.”

He glanced up to find Marco watching him, an odd, soft expression on his face.  And then, as Jean turned his head, he looked back out over the water and smiled to himself. 

Jean jolted upright, almost knocking him off balance.  “ _You did the thing!”_

“The who?”

“ _The thing,_ the Marco thing, where you look at me and then you look away and smile all cryptic like you’re thinking something super profound, _that_ thing!”

Marco looked mystified for a second more, and then he shook his head and chuckled.  “You’ve _changed,_ Jean.  This winter would’ve broken most people, you know that?” He raised his hand hesitantly, unsure of the distance, and Jean caught it in his and brought it to his face.  He felt the faint tremor in Marco’s fingers as they ran over his cheeks, feeling the details he couldn’t see anymore.  “I’m _so_ proud of you.”

Jean couldn’t take the distance anymore.  He flung his arms around Marco’s neck, taking as much of the taller man’s weight as he could as he pulled them down nose to nose.  “I love you,” he whispered, and kissed him before he had a chance to reply.

Marco gasped against his lips, and his arm tightened around Jean’s waist with bruising force despite his injuries, long fingers skating across the sliver of skin where his shirt had pulled up.  Jean tangled his fingers in his shaggy hair, resisting the urge to grab at him everywhere he could reach when there were still too many half-healed wounds.  He parted his lips and Marco’s tongue slipped between them, leaned in closer, blood pounding in his ears as Marco’s teeth caught his lower lip and Jean raked his nails down the back of his neck, making him gasp and sway forward, their hips pressed together and –

“Hey.  Cuttlefish.” 

They broke apart with an unpleasant start, and Marco muttered a French phrase Jean had only heard once, from his grandfather immediately before his grandmother slapped him. 

Ymir reclined against the doorframe, grinning at them with unholy delight.  “You’ve got visitors.”  She looked over her shoulder, back inside, and said something in a language that was almost, but not quite Russian.

“ _Cuttlefish?”_ Jean muttered out of the corner of his mouth, tugging his shirt back down.

“ _Long_ story.”

Ymir propped the door open with one foot, speaking in the same Slavic language and then…”Come on, it’s okay.”

She came out onto the balcony, followed by two young men Jean had never seen before, one blond and fair-skinned and the other tall and dark-haired; he moved hesitantly, almost as though he was trying to hide behind Ymir despite standing nearly a foot taller than her.  He wore gloves despite the relative warmth, but not until Jean saw him curl his fingers to push the door closed did realization dawn.

The two littlest fingers of his left hand didn’t move with the others, like the glove was padded.

“ _Hi,”_ Jean said, and it came out faintly strangled.  Marco looked from him to the two boys standing behind Ymir, and then gasped as the realization hit him.

“Hello,” said Bertholdt Hoover.

Reiner (it _had_ to be Reiner, now that he knew what to look for Jean could see the faint marks of old burn scars under his amber eyes) looked up at Bertholdt and asked him something in the language Jean now knew had to be Ukranian.  Bertholdt glanced at Marco, and nodded. 

An extremely awkward silence persisted, made all the worse by the faint, repetitive sloshing of the waves.  Marco cleared his throat.

Finally, in a sort of full-body _fuck it,_ Jean shook off the shock, crossed the distance in two steps and pulled Bertholdt into a tight hug.  The kid stiffened for a second, and then returned it with a soft laugh; it felt like he was nothing but bone under his thick coat.  After a minute, Jean pulled back, and said the only thing he could think of: “Welcome home.” 

Reiner looked at Ymir.  “Them too, huh?”  She shot him one of her wolfish smiles.

“Straight people are surprisingly sparse around here.”

 _We recognize our own,_ Jean thought. 

Reiner shook his head, and looked at Jean with a smile.  “I’ve got something for you.  For both of you, actually.”  And he reached into his pocket and handed Jean a crumpled fifty cent postcard.

It was cheap and badly printed, and looked like it had had a rough trip to Chicago.  The back was entirely blank except for the address, scrawled in a messy, angular hand.  The front was a dime-a-dozen tourist photo of a massive statue of Jesus, and a cheery red script reading _Greetings from Rio!!_ arched between His spread hands…and just below the words, in the same smudged pen as the address, “Энни.”

Jean couldn’t read the Russian alphabet, but he could hazard a guess.  _I guess I was wrong after all._ _Somewhere nice and warm, huh, Historia?_

He was so busy grinning at the postcard he almost missed it when Reiner handed Marco a tiny box, not much bigger than a golf ball, made of polished wood.  Marco and Reiner exchanged a long, silent stare, and then Marco flipped the top of the box open with his thumb. 

He clicked it shut again a second later with a barely stifled gasp, and slipped it into his pocket.

Jean pretended he hadn’t seen the silver glint of a filigree wedding band.

 

* * *

 

 

File no. 56-104

TRANSCRIPT OF: Surveillance footage recorded in outer office of Federal Bureau of Investigation field office, Chicago IL. 

SUBJECT MATTER PERTAINING TO: Trost Station incident (13 December 2013) and the ongoing investigation into the death of Armin Artlet [REJECTED by Judge Rico Brzenska on the grounds that camera was placed illegally]; Investigation of Major Nile Dawk for questionable interview and surveillance practices.

[RECORDING BEGINS]

SPEAKER A: Well that took for [expletive] ever.  Think he bought it?

SPEAKER B: Not even a little.

A: Anything he can do about it?

B: With a two week head start?  Leonhardt’s probably on the _moon_ by now.

A: Surely you mean tragically deceased in an act of attempted terrorism.

_[Transcriber’s note: at this point in the recording, both speakers appear to look directly at the hidden camera.]_

B:…that’s exactly what I mean.

[Conversation ceases for 1 minute 25 seconds]

A: So this is winning?

B: Looks that way.

A: It is goddamn hard to tell with you, sometimes.

B: [soft laughter] Sometimes I wonder if you’re actually on my side, Levi.

A: ‘Course I’m [expletive] not on your side. Not on [expletive] _Dawk’s_ either.  I’m on _their_ side.

B: _They_ being…?

A: Isn’t it obvious? Jean and Marco’s.  [ _Sound of door opening_ ] _Always,_ Jean and Marco’s.

[Door slams]

[Recording Terminated]

 

[end file]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.
> 
> \-- Emily (kenjiandco)

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is inspired by Tumblr user tuxedo-bomber's drawings- go check them out, they are adorable.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
